


Malfunctioning

by Anonymouscosmos



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, F/M, Institute courser, Learning to be Human, Love and Redemption, Slow Burn, The Brotherhood is straightup a bunch of dickbags in this, The Institute (Fallout), alternate endings, brb breaking my own heart here, there is a mild salsa chapter later but it's really not that racey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 90,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27842470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymouscosmos/pseuds/Anonymouscosmos
Summary: A long and sweet tale of X6-88 becoming more human as he falls headlong over heels for a tall and brutal ex-soldier. They are more alike than he could possibly guess, and she is to be his undoing.
Relationships: Female Sole Survivor/X6-88
Comments: 117
Kudos: 48





	1. The Watcher

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea/concept I have had in my head for a while, but couldn't begin working on until I finished my last work. Breathers between creativity, ya know? It is a work in progress, and usually I finish things before I start posting them. Posting unfinished things before they are complete, things I am unsure of, scares me to death. Especially with me dabbling in a different writing style than I'm used to. As I type this, I'm not even sure how I plan to end it or where it's going... but I feel driven to share it. I need to know if it's good, and in my head there is only an echo chamber.
> 
> This is my version of X6-88, my way of granting him depth and a story and giving him more than Bethesda saw fit to do. Some of it is canon, some of it might not be. It's not really a pro-Institute story, but it's not entirely anti-Institute either.  
> __________________________________________________________________________________________________

He was told to watch her, and so he does. The platform rises from the chasm below, grinding gears and rusted metal crying out protest. She stands in the center of it. She is tall, only a few inches shorter than he is. Her hair brushes her collarbones, golden like the sun. The hazy wasteland daylight illuminates the lighter strands. Sunkissed pieces, telling a story of time spent beneath the sun. He has never seen someone like her. Eyes - darker than the night itself - piercing, enigmatic eyes, scan the horizon. They do not see him. They can’t. He is cloaked, little more than another wasteland shadow. Her nose is aquiline. It is not delicate. It adds strength to her face. 

Her features convey absolute ferocity and determination. Respect kindles in him immediately, even if he knows nothing about her. He sees her for what she is, recognizes kinship. She is a hunter, a predator rather than prey, just as he is. Even with her entire world shattered, she moves with a litheness and purpose as she makes her way down the hill and into the destroyed world below. He follows, his steps light and silent. He  _ desires _ to watch her, now. Not only because he has orders to, he realizes, but because he wants to. She has piqued his interest.

She finds the robot first. It has remained in this place, shackled to its old life before the bombs fell and changed everything.  _ Frankie _ , it calls her. It greets her enthusiastically, a loyal automaton, but her attitude is tight and controlled. She does not waste energy on niceties, only asks for information and a status report on the world. Her face remains impassive as the robot tells her she has been in stasis for two hundred years. The only thing that changes is her eyes. There is a flicker, a passing moment of grief and weakness before she hardens once more. Incredible. He is impressed by her restraint. It is not a quality humans often exhibit.

She is smart, methodical. She scours the neighborhood, arms herself. He watches as she builds herself a makeshift workbench and then sits down to clean and maintain the aged weapons she has found. She adapts to her surroundings almost immediately. She is a woman used to being cast into chaos, and she does not let it slow her down. He wishes he knew more about her, but he was given no history and little to go on. Show up, observe, do not interfere. Her first night, she sleeps on the roof of her old home, rather than attempting to take shelter within. She doesn’t seem to mind the hard tiles beneath her. She stares up at the stars, eyes blinking only when necessary, a stale cigarette sending up curls of smoke from where it rests between her lips. Sleep finally takes her, her body going limp. He is at last able to relax, remembers to breathe. He rests, too, so that he might rise before she does.

She starts out the next morning with taking up her rifle and going into the stark and barren woods that surround her old home. He follows. It is more difficult to be stealthy here, for there are leaves and branches and dry grass and shrubs to evade. Still, he is the best. That is why they chose him. She does not detect him. She is focused on her quarry. A radstag grazes some hundred yards away, oblivious to the human observing him. She raises her rifle, takes aim. He can hear her draw in a breath and hold it, see the way she holds the rifle with practiced ease. Her finger tightens around the trigger, and the resounding shot sends birds overhead scattering into the skies. The stag falls almost immediately. It is a perfect shot, through the shoulder and directly into the heart beneath. She is more than proficient with a rifle. In his mind, he adds another stone to the pile in her favor.

The rest of the morning hours are spent dressing and preparing the stag. She sets up a rack of sorts and lays out strips of meat to cure in the sun. Some of it she roasts over the fire, making it a late breakfast. She is hungry, but not desperately so. She takes her time eating, staring out at the wasteland thoughtfully. For a moment, her eyes rest a little too long where he stands, and he goes rigid. Has she seen him? He knows if he moves, the stealth field shimmers like waves of heat in summer. Perhaps she has caught it out of the corner of her eye. Her eyes move on, and he relaxes. It must be something like intuition. The way one might turn when the hairs on the back of the neck stand on end, whispering a warning.  _ Someone is watching. _

It isn’t until her third full day on the surface that she strikes out for concord. She goes prepared, a rifle over her shoulder and a pistol at her hip. She fills a rucksack with loaded magazines and a handful of grenades. Her mouth is in an uncharacteristic thin line. She has a less full mouth, with corners so upturned it often gives the impression of an enigmatic smile. She reminds him somehow of the famous Mona Lisa painting - a staple of human history. It is the sort of expression that keeps less intelligent beings guessing, but he knows better. All he needs to do is observe her eyes to gauge her true sentiments. Her thoughts flit through them in little bursts of freedom before she pins them down like specimens on a board.

Raiders are crawling over the town below. He fights an instinctual reaction to warn her in some way. That would violate his orders, and obedience to them is paramount. She does not seem aware yet. He is worried at first that the dog will betray his presence to her, and so he hangs back - lurking in the bushes as she approaches the animal. The dog knows he is there, but shows no interest. He trots to Frankie and greets her, black nose snuffling at her hand. She smiles. It is the first time he has seen her do such a thing. The effect is somewhat astounding. It transforms her face. She is no longer like him. She is more. She is bright, like the sun itself. Lights shine in the inky depths of her eyes as she smooths the dog’s fur with her hands and murmurs something to him. He can’t quite hear the words falling from her lips, but he finds he wishes he could.

The dog follows her into Concord, throwing a pointed look in the direction of his hiding place. He steps out of the bushes and follows. He is looking forward to seeing how she handles the situation unfolding on the streets of Concord. She stops at the town’s border, cocking her head as she listens in on the sounds of shouting and gunfire. The rifle slips from her shoulder in a smooth motion, and she checks to ensure the magazine is seated and there is a round chambered. She is clad in her blue vault suit, the adaptive mesh clinging to a lithe but muscular body. She has assembled some body armor, though, gathered from the remains of the dead and tailored at her workbench. She wears leather panels strapped to her thighs, and has crafted shoulder guards and a chest plate of sorts. Not good, but considerably better than only a vault suit.

If he didn’t know better, he would think she was cut from the same cloth as him. She moves through the streets and among the shouting raiders like a mad Valkyrie, cutting a bloody swath through them. The raiders are slow, stupid. They were not expecting an attack from their flank, and the blood of Minutemen on the streets has made them overconfident. They fall before her like razorgrain beneath a sickle, and she is utterly merciless. The lights in her eyes extinguish, and she is only a sword now. A blade cleaving through lesser beings, precise and brutal. A raider begs her for mercy, clawing at her boot with a bloodied hand. She stomps his head with the very same boot, once, twice, again. The man’s skull caves beneath the onslaught. She does not continue once it is done. There is no emotion behind the boot. She moves on, as casual as a cook who has disposed of a rat in her kitchen.

From atop his balcony, the last Minuteman standing calls down to her for help. He is desperate, exhausted. For days they have been holed up in the museum, fighting against relentless waves of raiders. He saw it unfolding as he passed through the area, but he does not interfere in such things. He was not sent here for them, and even if he were given free reign… he would not help them. They are not his concern. She does not answer the man’s plea with words, only nods to implicate her willingness and simultaneously storms the museum. She throws the doors open with force, their hinges protesting further abuse. The raiders breached them once already today, and the print of her sole beside the broken jamb is just another in an array of dusty prints.

He decides to wait outside the museum. It is easier to remain undetected out in the open. In cramped quarters and tight hallways, he runs the risk of exposure. Above all, his orders are to remain unseen. If he is compromised, he puts everything in jeopardy. He has never failed at a given task. He is the best, the brightest, a culmination of training and intelligence. And so he waits, standing beneath the long shadow of a destroyed general store. He can hear gunfire and more shouts of alarm through the gapped museum door. The shouts are not hers, but that of raiders as they die. Swift and effective. His mouth pulls into a small smile. They are like brahmin, falling before a deathclaw.

She reappears after thirty long minutes. It is in an entirely unexpected manner. A suit of power armor appears on the rooftop, mingun held in gauntleted fists. Her movements are fluid in the heavy suit. She has done this before; A thought he files away for later. She is just in time, for more raiders are flooding the streets. Reinforcements. She leaps from the rooftop, and he moves out of the impending blast zone from the explosive vents in the boots of the armor. The raiders open fire on her, but their strap harnesses and pipe pistols are no match for a full suit of pre war power armor. She mows them down with impunity, their bullets ricocheting off of her steel shroud harmlessly. The barrels of the minigun grow hot, the ends glowing red as she empties the enormous drum. Spent casings bounce on the fragmented pavement at her feet, the dull brass shining in the rays of sun as they break through the clouds overhead. The air smells of blood and sweat and gunpowder. The minigun whines on in a terrible crescendo. 

Something changes. The earth shakes beneath his feet, and he sees the grate of a sewer fly up and into the wall of a nearby building. The heavy and ornate steel panel gouges and shatters brick before settling where it falls. From the depths beneath, a deathclaw emerges. He admires deathclaws. They remind him of himself. Something terrible and dangerous, crafted from years of experimentation and science. They are apex predators. There is nothing bigger nor more ferocious, but it is more than brute strength or primal force that he appreciates. They are highly intelligent. It is part of what makes them so deadly. Enemies like the raiders are easy prey, for their stupidity is only matched by their greed. A deathclaw wants for nothing, but kills all the same. There is pleasure found in it. The first time he saw a deathclaw, he watched as it tore apart an entire camp. No human was spared. It left the circle of tents and bodies, stepping over them with disinterest and returning to roaming the wasteland. It did not swallow so much as a mouthful of flesh, though blood coated its cruel mouth from where it tore at the throats of caravan guards. Utter decadence.

She has no idea what she is up against, and once more he finds himself smothering the urge to aid her. Instead, he watches. The deathclaw flings raiders to the side with great sweeps of its long and taloned limbs. Frankie opens fire, the minigun roaring as bullets pelt the deathclaw’s hide. All she manages to do is draw its ire, and the great beast charges up the street towards her on powerful haunches. She seems to realize it is a lost cause, the tough reptilian hide absorbing much of the damage. The deathclaw is nearly on her now, claws reaching out. Grasping. What she does next stuns him. She ducks beneath the gleaming talons, darting to the side with surprising speed, and slams an armored fist into the creature’s jaw. The full strength of the power armor backs the blow. It sends the deathclaw careening into the pavement in a tangle of legs and tail, and when it rights itself he sees a gleam of understanding in its golden eyes. This is a foe to be respected. This foe is not like the soft-shelled raiders it had just torn through like wet paper. It circles Frankie and she faces it, ready to strike another blow. He realizes he is holding his breath.

The deathclaw strikes out at her again, careful to avoid her fist this time. He sees the move for what it is - a distraction. The creature pivots, lashing at her with its powerful tail. Frankie sees through the ruse, too, for she engages the jetpack on her suit and jumps back a few feet, successfully evading the attempt to unseat her. The deathclaw grins, flashing jagged teeth that shine, and advances on her. The talons of its feet dig into the warm asphalt as it stalks its prey. Frankie claps her hands together loudly and then holds them out, gloved fingers clawed to mimic talons of her own.

“Come and get me, you big ugly bitch,” she taunts. He almost grins himself. She is facing death itself and still she does not bend or falter. The deathclaw snarls and lunges at her, tucking its head and attempting to skewer her with its horns. She lets it come, the horns scraping against steel with a terrible shriek of distressed metal. He had expected her to move or run, but she lets the horns wedge themselves tightly on either side of the armo’s torso. She waits, and then she grabs hold of each horn with a gauntleted fist and extricates them from her armor, fists  _ wrenching.  _

Power armor lends ordinary men incredible strength. It had been the catalyst behind the US taking back Alaska, before the bombs fell. It could be used to lift a car or even uproot a young tree. He has seen it used in many ways, but never - not in all his time in the wasteland - has he seen anyone use it to snap the neck of a deathclaw. He hears the meaty  _ crack _ before he truly realizes what is happening. The slotted pupil in the one golden eye he can see from his vantage point blows wide as Frankie all but twists the deathclaw’s head right off. Tendons snap, columns of vertebrae separate. The body thrashes, jerks, as final nerve impulses make their way to its brain. At last, it is still. She lets the deathclaw fall heavily to the ground at her feet. There are two grooves scraped into her armor where the horns have been. Otherwise, she - and the armor - are undamaged. She turns her head towards the museum again, and without another glance at the deathclaw, steps over the fallen creature and returns to the Minuteman inside to make her report. 

He steps out of the old building, then, and crouches beside the fallen deathclaw. The proud head remains at an unnatural angle, the golden eyes unseeing, third lids half-shuttered. He both mourns the creature’s passing and is in awe of the manner in which it died.  _ Frankie,  _ he whispers to himself, knowing there are none left alive to hear him. The name is almost reverent when it leaves him. A prayer, perhaps. It is hard to believe Father is of her blood. Father, who is both firm and yet mild-mannered. Father, who is given to emotion just as the rest of his species. Father is a great man, but he is nothing like the ferocious woman who just blew threw Concord like a wicked storm. 

She emerges from the museum again with the Minuteman and his motley group of settlers. They have asked her to join them in Sanctuary, and she agrees. He tries not to feel disappointed in her. Humans are, after all, rather like herd animals. They cluster and build societies. They are dependent on the warmth and comfort other humans provide. They fill their residences with useless items and celebrate meaningless occasions, all for an excuse to participate in group activities. He expected more from her. He has grown too used to the idea he sold himself, that she was like him and aloof from the rest of her kind. He sees that now. She carries on a conversation with the Minuteman - whom he now knows is named Preston - and her expression is less stern, her words softer. She shares her story of the vault with him, and the old woman speaks of Diamond City.

He wonders if the old woman is an Institute plant, as she spits out drabble about visions and seeing the future. If she is, it was cleverly done. She is guiding Frankie in the right direction.

Preston and the settlers invite Frankie to join them for dinner that night, as they gather around the fire and enjoy some of the meat she has harvested. She declines, claiming to be tired. He knows that is not true. The lines of her body do not slacken. She remains taut, as though strings holding her up are pulled tight. Perhaps he was wrong in his assessment. Perhaps she is not like the others, reaching for comfort. She leaves the group to their merriment and instead patrols the surrounding area, clearing it of threats. The dog follows her, ignoring the presence that follows them. He weaves after her through the trees, grateful for the night vision capacity of his glasses as darkness falls over the woods. She pauses at the foot of an oak, and once more he freezes, fearing he has been found out. Her head is cocked. She is listening. The dog provides good cover, shifting restlessly in the leaves and panting loudly. Her shoulders relax and she resumes movement.

She sleeps atop the roof again, rifle in her arms. Her eyes remain open until exhaustion wins out once more. He wonders if she fears sleep. If that is why she chooses to perch on the highest point in Sanctuary. Perhaps the dreams that come to her are dark. He understands that. Sometimes his own dreams leave him reluctant to close his eyes again. 

  
  


**-**

  
  


Father is pleased with the initial report. He paces back and forth in his office, alternating between rubbing his hands together excitedly and pinching his chin thoughtfully. When X6-88 reaches a point that particularly interests Father he interrupts, demanding more details. X6 can see the resemblance now, though it is diluted. Softer. Father has the same dark eyes. His hair is brown rather than gold, shot through with thick bands of gray. The line of the nose is different, too. But he sports the same cheekbones, the same bone structure. He is tall, standing at six foot four. He has a broad chest and wide shoulders, though his body is soft with age and a gentle life in service to science. He is not the nephew of a warrior, in X6’s opinion, though in fairness to Father, he was never given the option to lead such a life.

“She is more than I imagined she could be,” Father is saying, stopping at his desk and leaning on it. He often gets this way, breathless, when he walks too much. His body is failing him. The aggressive cancer continues to attack his cells despite Doctor Volkert doing his best to save Father. The prognosis is terminal, but Father does not want the rest of the board to know. Not yet. Not until he has secured a proper successor. Only Volkert and X6 know the truth. Father does well at hiding the symptoms around the others, but the exertion of pacing his office and his excitement over X6’s report has taxed him greatly today. “If she finds her way here, then she will prove herself worthy of the position. Continue to follow her. I want to know everything she does, everywhere she goes. Do not interfere, no matter who she encounters or what action she takes. This experiment means nothing if you compromise it. Do you understand, X6-88?”

“Yes, sir,” he answers. Father nods at the assertion, pleased.

“Go now. Resupply if needed, then return to your posting.”

X6 leaves him to his thoughts. The Institute is busy as always. Synths and humans shuttle back and forth, preoccupied with their tasks. It has been some time since he served as a proper Courser. Father leans on him more and more these recent days, sending X6 out amongst his people to be the Director’s eyes. Still, synths skitter away from him with fear in their eyes. Some of them he has personally retrieved, and though their minds are wiped of such memories, they are made aware of that fact. Of all the Coursers, he was the most efficient at his job. It is part of why he is Father’s favorite. A title that the other Coursers envy, but cannot claim for themselves. Ayo was not pleased when Father took X6 from the SRB. Ayo has always been a man who grasps at power like beads scattering across a linoleum floor. Yielding X6 to the Director is salt to a wound, X6 knows. He has no feelings on the matter. Ayo is an inept head of his department. There is a reason Father refuses to permanently assign the position to him. Ayo embodies many of humanity’s flaws that X6 finds pathetic. Greed, hate, jealousy, and other such petty fancies. Ayo is not the right man for the job, but his willingness to be ruthless keeps his position secured for the time being.

The Institute has been hemorrhaging synths for some time now, and Ayo is thus far unable to discern the reason for it. He has combed through every personnel file looking for something that might point him in the right direction. He invades all private terminals in the name of his crusade, interrogates synths and humans alike in the hallways, and often detains people to grill them with endless questions. His efforts consistently prove fruitless, and so Coursers are needed more than ever. The Railroad has become an immovable thorn in the Institute’s side. Each failure to discover the mole only enrages Ayo further. X6 had seen his tirades; has watched the man rant and rave, fists clenched at his sides or pounding his desk. Sometimes, he strikes one of the Coursers. He is ugly, inside and out, and is unable to assign blame where it is due. He has never struck X6. He is afraid of X6. Perhaps it is because X6 is Father’s right hand. Perhaps it is because he believes of all the Coursers, X6 is the most dangerous. Whatever his reasons, Ayo does not touch X6. X6 finds the displays of volcanic emotion to be… disgusting. Reprehensible. Ayo is far from being a credit to his species, and X6 doles out no respect where Ayo is concerned.

He obtains more nutrient packs and bottles of water from the Gen 2 operating requisitions. Purified water is not a necessity, though it is preferable. Radiation does not harm his superior DNA like it does to humans, but the taste is an improvement over wasteland swill. Resupplied, he returns to the woods surrounding Sanctuary and settles in to rest. There are only a couple of hours left before dawn breaks across the sky. An ordinary human might be exhausted after such a night, but he is neither human nor ordinary. Atop her roof, Frankie sleeps fitfully. Her fine brows come down to meet, making pinched lines between them. He watches her for a little longer before returning the binoculars to his pack and joining her in the land of dreams.


	2. Iron and Sand

Preston wants her to help him rebuild the Minutemen. He is all that is left of the militia group, the others now lying dead among the streets of Quincy. He can see her mulling the request over in her mind, dark eyes unreadable as she regards Preston. She is weighing whether or not this will help her or be advantageous in any way. She is thinking like a commander moving pieces on a board. She reaches a decision at last and assents, taking Preston’s hand in her own and gripping it tightly. They are nearly equal height, and she does not lift her chin to meet his eyes. It isn’t necessary. Her fingers are long and finely boned. Elegant, despite the calluses upon them. He is aware this is a strange thing to notice, but his job is to observe everything. That is how he rationalizes it.

She has a task to finish before she sets out on Preston’s first assignment. X6 follows her up the hill to the vault, bemused at the shovel she presses into the dirt at the top. He watches as she pushes the control button and orders the platform to descend once more into the vault below. He waits, resuming his prior vantage point. Half an hour passes, and he begins to worry. An hour, then, and still he waits. If he takes the lift down, he will reveal himself. It is far too loud, and the sound of it will echo through the empty vault. It would all but trumpet his arrival.

When she returns, there is something on the platform beside her. It is a luggage cart, and on it lies the body of a man. X6 raises his binoculars for a better look. The man appears to be thawing. Moisture beads his skin and puddles on the metal cart beneath him. He is dead. That much is clear. There is a bullet hole at his right temple, though in his half-frozen state it does not bleed. The back of his head is gone, blown away with the sort of messiness only a hollow point round can create.  _ Kellogg _ . He always favored those rounds. X6 knew Kellogg had been the one to retrieve Father from this place, but he had not known about the death. Father often kept information to himself, not deeming it necessary to share with X6. Who is this man on the cart? Her partner?

Frankie’s eyes are red, and he knows she has been crying, then. No tears trail down her cheeks now, but the red-rimmed whites of her eyes are a dead giveaway. He has seen many humans and synths alike cry. It often makes them ugly, contorting their features as they buckle under the torrent of emotion. Frankie is different in that regard as well. Her mouth is a hard line, her brows furrowed, and her eyes red - but she does not yield to the demands of her grief. Her sorrow does not diminish the power she still exudes, only shifts it to something else. She retrieves her shovel and pushes the cart off of the platform and down the hill. He follows, curious. He had never seen a funeral. All who die in the Institute are cremated immediately, their remains turned to ash before being dumped into a chemical vat for dissolution. He knows most humans on the surface bury their dead for lack of such a facility. It appears that is what Frankie is doing now.

She does not push the dead man into Sanctuary; instead she chooses a place alongside the creek that winds its way around Sanctuary. Even now, in her grief, she keeps herself separate from the others. She neither needs nor wants their words of comfort. She has a heart of steel. Admiration sweeps through him again as he watches her dig the grave, face unreadable as the blackened earth piles higher and higher beside her. He takes the opportunity to draw closer, observing the man on the cart. Golden hair, thick and wavy where it is not marred by the gunshot. He has the same nose as Frankie, the same deep golden skin dotted by freckles. This is her  _ twin _ , X6 realizes. His features are more pronounced, more masculine than Frankie’s, but otherwise they are exactly alike. He understands, now, the pieces clicking into place almost audibly.  _ This _ was Father’s father. The man who had sired the Director of the Institute. 

He realizes she is no longer breathing heavily. The hole is a sufficient depth at last. She climbs out of the grave, face shining with sweat. She has unzipped her vault suit, tying the arms about her waist. Her torso is only clad in a sports bra now, and X6 averts his eyes. She cannot see him there, but somehow he suddenly feels as though he is prying. Even so, lean muscle and rounded curves and clean lines remain in his mind’s eye, try as he might to banish them. He feels something for the first time. Shame, maybe. He has never been ashamed of anything in his life, but he has just looked at the future Director in a way no one should. It feels like a grievous offense. He steps back as she approaches, giving her a wider berth and allowing himself to suck in a silent breath.

She braces one boot against the cart and takes hold of her brother’s ankles. He was a large man in life, as tall and broad as X6. Despite her height and strength, dragging him across the ground and into the grave takes her an enormous amount of effort. When it is done and he lies at the bottom of the grave, she climbs back out and begins to shovel dirt over him. There is an aggression to the shoveling, the arcs of the shovel somehow abrupt and violent. He wishes he could see her face now, but her back is to him as she delves the spade of the shovel into the dark earth again and again.

When the hole is at last filled, she stops and straightens. She braces a hand to her lower back, stretching and elongating her body to lessen the ache. It has been a hard half day’s labor, and he can see how tired she is now. She smooths the rough earth of the grave with the back of the shovel, then looks around as though searching for something. Is she looking for him? His heart skips a beat as she strides in his direction, but resumes its rhythm when she stops short of him. She crouches, and he sees she is gathering rocks. She gathers up an armful of them and turns, walking back down to the grave. He edges closer, doubly curious now. She arranges the stones in a little cairn of sorts, on top of the earth over where her brother’s head lies. She is marking the grave, in tribute to him. It isn’t until the last stone is placed that she allows herself to slump. Her shoulders drop, the defiance and strength leaving them. She sits cross-legged at the foot of her brother’s grave and wraps her arms around herself in a distinctly vulnerable gesture. It is human of her, to hold herself so. Ordinarily X6 would view such a gesture with something like contempt, but because it is Frankie and because he can see the pain in her eyes, he feels only… empathy.

Her shoulders twitch, tremble, and a sound that is a bit like a soft gasp leaves her. He realizes she is crying again, despite her best efforts to contain it. At last, she has lost control. For days she has remained as immovable as stone. Now, facing an eternal goodbye, she is undone. Even in her state, she is controlled. A lesser woman would crumble, emitting the sort of human wails that always put X6 on edge and make him grind his teeth. Not Frankie. Only soft, gasping noises and the barest movement in her shoulders and back. She presses a hand to the dirt, and speaks.

“I will make them pay, brother.” Her fingers curl in the soil with the words. “And I will get your son back. I promise.” Her voice is thick, low. He has never heard it like this until now.

Twenty feet separate him from her. He wants to close them, to… what? Place a hand on her shoulder in solidarity? That would compromise the mission, and likely end in her snapping his bones like brittle twigs. Not to mention the sheer absurdity of feeling such an urge. He wonders if he is malfunctioning. If there is a flaw in his programming, making him feel thus? He has never felt the need to comfort anyone, human or synth. Not even Father, when he shared the news of his impending mortality. X6 feels unease settle in his gut as his eyes remain on the slumped woman sitting at the foot of the fresh grave. He should report this to Father. He should tell Father something is amiss within himself, and demand a replacement be sent to observe Frankie.

But he won’t. He knows he won’t. He has been assigned to watch her, and it is more than that now. He  _ wants _ to.

Again, she does not join the others for dinner. She sits atop her house, chewing on jerky and washing it down with whiskey. When she is done eating and stars begin to stud the deepening sky overhead, she lights a cigarette. From his vantage point he watches the curls of white smoke envelop her. She is a dragon, silent and statuesque, sitting amongst the embers of her making. Each time she takes a pull of the cigarette, the burning end is reflected in her eyes. A molten center, like magma at the core of the earth. The effect is mesmerizing, and when she finishes the smoke and ashes it out on a roof tile, he experiences a sense of loss.

Morning comes, and she walks down to the creek to bathe. He does not follow. This is nothing he needs to see, nor is it relevant to his reports. He chooses to observe the others in Sanctuary. The couple, Marcy and Jun, are fighting. Marcy is a ball of rage, Jun a whimpering puddle of a man. He gathers they have lost a child, but feels no sympathy. Frankie lost an entire  _ world _ . She lost her twin. She lost her nephew. Frankie does not cower behind the guns of others. Frankie does not curl up and allow the commonwealth to whip her exposed back. She is iron where these people are mud. He moves on with disdain.

Preston Garvey is talking to the old woman. Mama Murphy, he calls her. X6 listens from behind a house.

“I don’t know what to think of her,” Preston is saying. “I can’t get a read. She’s too mercurial. She agreed to help us, but I’m not sure that was for any reason other than to form an alliance of sorts.”

“Don’t be too hard on her, kid,” Mama Murphy says. She pats Preston’s arm, a gesture of assurance. “She’s been through a lot. But I’ve seen what lies ahead. She will make the right choices, even if it’s not for the reasons you expect.”

“I hope so,” Preston sighs. “We’ve run out of road here. Without some help, I don’t know if the Minutemen have a future anymore.”

“Sometimes you’ve gotta have a little faith.” Mama Murphy’s tone is confident. She doesn’t know a thing about Frankie, but seems to have an idea on how things will turn out. X6 wonders if there isn’t something to this mysterious  _ sight  _ she apparently possesses. Such an ability would be a boon to the Institute. He will have to mention it to Father. 

She returns from the creek. Her cheeks are pink, freshly scrubbed. Her hair is damp, less like spun sunlight now and more like burnished gold. She has changed her clothes, switching to a pair of worn jeans and a button-up plaid shirt. Gifts, from the woman named Marcy. The new clothing suits her, somehow. The green plaid serves to deepen the gold of her skin. Frankie throws the vault suit with 111 emblazoned across the back in an old metal trash bin, more force behind the gesture than necessary. She has no desire to keep such an item. A reminder of what was done to her and her family. If he could, he would burn it. An offering to the dragon on the rooftop.

He follows her out of Sanctuary. The dog accompanies her again, by now used to his presence. Perhaps the animal assumes Frankie, too, is aware of her unseen tail. The commonwealth is bright, the smell of spring on the air. It is the dampness of leaves, the blooms of hubflowers, the humidity as the ground warms beneath the sun. It is almost pleasant. This far away from places such as Diamond City, there is no stench of humanity. Only the earth, new each day. Over the last two centuries, life has returned to the commonwealth in fits and starts. New trees began to sprout after the first hundred years, and with them came various shrubs and grasses and other such things. The composition of each variety of flora and fauna is forever altered by the radiation, but still they return. She seems to note this, stopping occasionally to inspect a plant. She sees bloat flies for the first time, and wastes no time blowing them away.

The dog is clever. He growls a warning to her whenever enemies are near. X6 finds this interesting. The dog has not growled at him once. He supposes that means the dog considers him an ally or neutral party. He finds himself relieved. Frankie seems to be attached to the dog, and X6 would hate to be forced to harm the animal. Dogs and cats are an exception to X6’s disdain. Unlike humans, they are simple. There is no ugly emotion, no complex situations or personal flaws. Simple organisms that make no waves and create no chaos.

They cross through Concord again. The streets are now silent, bodies of raiders and the looming shape of the fallen Deathclaw scattered over the cracked roads. They are broken leaves, left to rot where they have fallen. Frankie might as well be blind, for all the acknowledgement she gives any of them. She steps over them, eyes on her Pip-Boy. Following coordinates given to her by Preston. At the top of the hill on the other side of Concord, she sees the Yao Guai. It has torn through the hapless traders, and they lie in pools of crimson as the irradiated bear feasts. She lifts her rifle, takes aim. Eyes fix on her as her scent drifts upwind. A black nose twitches. Teeth are bared, and a snarl is cut short as the round Frankie has fired tears through the beast’s heart. It falls, and Frankie lowers her rifle.

She searches the camp, taking what supplies she needs. The dead have no use for it, now. He appreciates her practicality. Ammunition and bottles of water go into her pack. She examines a dropped shotgun, nods to herself, slings it over her shoulder. When she is done gathering items, she does something unexpected. She crouches beside each expired human and closes their eyes, gloved fingers gentle as they shutter the staring eyes forever. It is a moment of tenderness and mercy, and X6 finds himself perplexed. His dragon, who slew an army of raiders and nearly decapitated a deathclaw, has a soft spot for the innocent. Ordinarily, he would find this to be a weakness. In her, it only adds to her strength somehow. Is this how all humans were, before the bombs fell? A mix of iron and sand? One part unyielding, the other part soft and shifting?

Her dark eyes flick over the landscape, almost pausing where he stands, but at the last moment continuing their journey. She looks up at the sky, and one brow is raised. It makes a small dent in her otherwise smooth forehead.

“I don’t know if you’re there, or you can hear me,” she says. “Hell, I can’t believe I’m saying something so stupid. But I can’t… shake the feeling you’re here with me.”

He thinks he knows what this is. She is beseeching a higher power. It is something that was quite common before the war, and has continued through the years. Even now, humans believe in some almighty being who punishes and rewards them at will. It is a strange belief, but a common one. He supposes even Frankie is given to such a weakness of dependency. She continues to speak, and he listens.

“If you are there… if you are listening… then I want to tell you I’m sorry. They should have taken me instead. I can’t change what happened, but I will find your son. I will find Shaun. Maybe then you can be at peace.”

He raises his eyebrows. So, she is not speaking to a god. She is speaking to... him, without realizing it. She has sensed his presence near her more than a few times, and has assigned the tingling of her senses to her brother’s ghost. He is almost relieved it is that, rather than believing in a deity. He doesn’t understand how anyone could look around the ruin of the wasteland and find so much as a seed of faith within themselves. Willful blindness, he supposes. It is a crutch humans often lean on.

Her journey continues, and she meets feral ghouls for the first time outside the old weigh station beside the tracks. She meets them with her usual lack of hesitancy, deciding to try out her newly acquired shotgun. They fling themselves at her with all the madness of their destroyed minds, but she is quick. She jogs backwards before the horde, picking them off one by one. Her feet are nimble, and she does not stumble once. She injures the last ghoul, blasting off each shriveled leg at the knee. It falls and attempts to crawl across the ground towards her, thin fingers scraping against the ground. She rolls it over on its back with her foot, pins it to the ground with the same boot. It thrashes and claws at her pant leg, bloodied stumps kicking against the ground. If there is pain, it shows no understanding of the sensation. Only primal rage and the desire to destroy. It is all that is left of a feral ghoul’s mind. She observes it, eyes taking in the desiccated skin and sunken hollows of its eyes; the spindly limbs and swollen gut and gnashing, broken teeth. There is only pity in her eyes, and once she takes in all the details, she raises her shotgun and puts the creature out of its misery.

He knows what she is looking for. She is establishing whether or not there is any humanity left in such a nightmare. She does not want to kill innocents. The feral ghouls are beyond such terms, their thoughts and memories gone, eaten away by radiation and time. She sees that now, and lowers the shotgun to hang alongside her leg. She is a woman who knows her enemies, and now these have been added to the list. A small curl of smoke drifts from the barrel, reminding him of the way her bottomless eyes look with embers reflected in them. She leaves the station, continuing on her journey to the coordinates.

The people of Tenpines Bluff look much like all other wastelanders. Exhausted, afraid, hungry, fearful. They have lived hard lives, trying to eke out an existence by tilling and planting the unforgiving soil. Deep lines crease around their eyes and mouths. Grime clings to them like a second skin. Frankie looks like a lit candle in a dark room beside them, everything about her a stark contrast to the people before her. They see it, too, and suspicion clouds over their eyes when she approaches. They raise their rifles and demand to know her business here. She doesn’t even blink. She tells them the Minutemen have sent her in response to their pleas for aid. The guns lower, just a few inches. The suspicion remains, but hope kindles behind it. They tell her about being harassed by raiders, extorted and threatened. They are afraid for their lives. Frankie’s mouth is a thin line as they tell her this, and she nods, encouraging more. They tell her where to find the raiders. The old Corvega plant.

He is concerned once more. He knows the place. It is dangerous. Raiders crawl over every level of the facility. They have been holed up there for months, killing anything that so much as flies over its walls. He has seen her clear the streets of Concord, but this is different. It is cramped, full of twisting hallways and winding stairs. There are snipers atop the hung metal walkways, positioned amongst the towering stacks. She is a dragon, but even dragons fall when enough arrows pierce their skin. Still, he is a watcher. It is his job to watch, and not interfere. He follows her down the tracks towards Lexington, worry lodged beneath his breastbone like a cold lump of lead.


	3. Malfunctioning

Afternoon comes, the light shifting to a deep gold, and still she does not return from the depths of the Corvega plant. He begins to fear this is the end. The experiment - Father’s experiment - is too short-lived. The last hope for the Institute has fallen to raider hands. A light flashes on his wrist device. He is being summoned. If he were human, he would curse at the interruption. His eyes flick to the doors of the plant once more, but no shape emerges from them. He flicks the button and a pillar of blue-white light consumes him, stealing him away from his closure.

It is not Father who awaits him, but Ayo. He approaches X6 as soon as the light around him dissipates.

“We have an urgent mission for you,” Ayo says, wasting no time. “One of our Coursers has defected. She was due to report in a day ago, and has turned off her tracking chip since then. She allowed her target to escape, and clearly the lapse of judgement has continued. You are to find her and bring her back immediately.”

He tilts his head to meet the shorter man’s eyes. “Does Father know you are pulling me from my current mission?”

“Of course he does!” Ayo’s face twists in fury at being questioned, but in a rare form he controls it. “We cannot risk losing a Courser to the Railroad. The resulting damage would be insurmountable. All the information in that skull of hers is classified. If they shuttle her away and she is lost to us, they will have even more of an advantage than they do now. This isn’t some _janitorial_ unit. This is X3-55.”

He knows her. She is an efficient and deadly Courser. He cannot imagine what could have led her so astray. Perhaps there is a flaw in her programming. Perhaps it is the same flaw that has been plaguing him since he took on the assignment of watching Frankie. The thought disturbs him, and again he feels the desire to confess his malfunctioning. But he does not. Not yet, not to Ayo.

“Do you have her last coordinates?” He asks.

Ayo hands him the slip of paper with latitude and longitude. It is a start. Beneath the coordinates is a recall code. That will come in handy… if she gives him a chance to use it. He knows the area. It is just outside of Bunker Hill. There is a high rise there, full of super mutants. He is not concerned. Super mutants are strong, but they are also stupid. He nods, enters the coordinates into his relay device, and teleports out of the Institute without another word. If Ayo wishes for small talk, he can whimper into the ear of another human.

He is distracted as he combs over the area surrounding the high rise, looking for clues. He does not want to be here. Not while Frankie is dead or dying within the Corvega plant. He curses Ayo, curses X3-55. He understands why they sent him. He is the best. The last time a Courser defected, they sent someone else after her. The Courser ordered to coordinate the retrieval failed, and was decommissioned as a result. X6 has no plans to be decommissioned. He will retrieve the errant Courser, and then he will return to Corvega. If the raiders have indeed killed Frankie, he will destroy them. He can’t explain why he feels the need to do it, but he knows he will. The raiders will not be missed.

His search of the area does not yield much. There are boot prints in the dust covering the floor of the old church here, and he recognizes the print. Institute-issue boots have walked here. There are dead raiders bent over pews or crumpled to the floor. She fought them and won. Only raider blood stains the old wooden floorboards. He crouches beside one, breathes in, and can smell decay. They have been dead at least 24 hours. The warm spring air has only hastened the early stages of decomposition. He stands, continues his sweep. The area is devoid of life. She killed everything that stood in her way as she made her way through the crumbling buildings. He finds a strand of hair snagged to a piece of torn chain link. In his mind’s eye, he can see her climbing through the destroyed fence; the jagged edge of wire catching her hair and breaking a few strands off. He pulls it loose, examines the strand in the evening light. It shimmers, a light red-brown. He thinks about golden hair, haloed by the sun at Frankie’s back, and shakes the image away. The flaw in his programming is distracting him from his purpose. His primary function. He allows the strand to drift away in the soft breeze and clenches his gloved fists to center himself once more.

The highrise towers ahead, half-built, a project left undone. Doomed to be incomplete for all time, in the wake of the bombs. If he were a runaway Courser, this would be a good place. Defensible. A clear view of the surroundings. The reputation for having a super mutant presence would be a deterrent to prying scavengers. It was the sort of place one might hide while waiting for a rescue to come. A smile touches his lips and he approaches skeletal ruin. As he suspected, the building is littered with the corpses of super mutants. He is getting closer. His blood hums as it always does when he is nearing a target. He moves carefully, quietly. Despite his stealth field, he knows X3-55 has both Courser instincts as well as trained senses. She will be expecting them to come for her. She will be ready.

He nears the upper floors. Here, the building is little more than support beams. They reach towards the sky like the bones of whales on a beach. The wind is stronger up here. Currents buffet against him as he walks the length of a steel beam, eyes searching for any sign of movement or his quarry. More super mutants have died here. Laser rounds have left clean, cauterized holes through eye sockets. She has given them the sort of deaths only a Courser can, and despite his mission, he admires her marksmanship. He climbs higher, and sees the remains of a super mutant suicider. There is little left. Chunks of meat with green skin still backing it, shrapnel from the mini nuke. Flies hover over the remains as they fester. Scorch marks striate the surrounding beams and floor where the device blew. His sharp eyes take in the details, and he sees a trail of blood - dried, now - leading away from the blast zone. Either a mutant, crawled away to lick its wounds… or an Institute Courser, injured.

He finds her beneath a makeshift pavilion. She knows he is coming. Perhaps she has sensed him, much like Frankie has in the past. Though Frankie does not know to look for X6, and X3-55 does. Either X6, or another like him. She has pulled herself up to a standing position. He takes note of the tourniquet tied about her right thigh. Shrapnel from the blast has all but destroyed her leg below the knee, and the right side of her body has not fared much better. Stimpacks and bandages have helped, but she is in no condition to fight. She is leaning against a rusted steel beam, eyes focused where he has come to a stop. She must have seen the shimmers of movement before he drew to a halt. She knows he is here, now, and she is unafraid. Her eyes have a flat look to them, her chin is held high. She does not raise her pistol, and he finds himself intrigued. He could speak her recall code now, rendering her inert, but for reasons he cannot fathom, he does not. He flicks a switch, and the stealth field around him disappears.

“So, they sent you.” Her voice is as calm and flat as her expression.

“You have not reported in. Ayo is concerned you are a security risk.”

She allows herself a smile. There is no mirth to it. “I would have been, if that super mutant hadn’t gotten the better of me.” She gestures to her injuries. “I was unable to make the rendezvous, and so I have sat here waiting to die. Or for someone like you to come looking.”

“Why?” He demands, his tone harsh. He does not need to elaborate more. She knows what he is asking.

“Aren’t you tired of it all, X6-88? Tired of all the death and fear and sorrow and pain? When I close my eyes to rest, all I hear are terrified synths begging me not to take them back. They plead with me not to destroy their minds. They aren’t afraid of dying, not a true death. They are afraid of losing what they are, what they have fought so hard to gain.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “I have been doing this for _so long_. For years, I have captured them and dragged them back to the Institute. I have walked past them in the halls hundreds of times after, and seen the blank look returned to their faces. It did not always bother me, but something has changed. I don’t know when it happened, or why. But now it is all I see, all I think about. I thought maybe… I could have it all erased. That I could have peace.”

“You have betrayed the Institute over malfunctioning synths?” His voice is somewhat incredulous. An inflection he is not used to.

“I don’t expect you to understand.” She adjusts, grimacing at the pain in her damaged body. “You aren’t like them. You aren’t like me. You love what you do. Let us be done with this. Kill me, and let me be free of my legacy of pain at last.”

“I am not here to kill you. I have been ordered to retrieve you. You are far too valuable of an asset. We will correct the flaws in your programming, and return you to the purpose you were made for.”

“Don’t,” her voice is soft. Pleading. Afraid. An Institute Courser, _afraid_. He has never seen such a thing. “Please, X6-88. Grant me this one mercy. I can’t go back.”

He shakes his head. How can she ask this of him? She knows what he is, though she has clearly lost sight of her own identity. He speaks. “X3-55, Beta 6--”

Her eyes go wide as she recognizes what he is doing. She doesn’t give him time to finish speaking the recall code. She turns at the edge of the high rise and launches herself out into the air beyond, lending the last of her strength to her remaining leg. She plummets immediately. He is stunned. The words die on his lips and he rushes to the spot where she once stood. The fall only takes seconds, and he watches her body slam into the pavement below. Vermillion spreads out around the ruin of her skull, and he takes an involuntary step back. _She chose to die,_ he thinks, mind numb with shock and horror. She chose to _die_ rather than return to the institute. She was as mad as a feral ghoul. He feels something like acute distress, then, wondering if the cracks in his armor where Frankie is concerned are the beginning of such a madness. Is this how it begins? Is he doomed to follow down the same destructive path as X3-55?

He pushes such thoughts away. This is neither the time nor place for them. He descends back through the now-empty building. He must take X3-55 back to the Institute. They will expect proof of what has happened. They will want their asset retrieved, even if damaged or destroyed. That is the policy. He does not turn away from the sight of her body. She is splayed out on the concrete, arms and legs bent at unnatural angles. Her head is canted to the side. No doubt as she fell she turned away from the ground rushing up to meet her. He crouches beside her, and sees her eyes are staring blankly. He thinks about Frankie, and before he realizes what he is doing, he reaches out and carefully closes X3-55’s eyes. She looks… peaceful, now. As though this end was all she ever wanted. He snaps the relay transmitter to her and stands, punching in the command with a shaking hand before columns of light take them both. He is malfunctioning, he knows he is. But he still can’t bring himself to report it.

He makes his report to Ayo. Two synths appear to retrieve X3-55 from where she lies on the floor of the SRB. He tries not to watch via his periphery as they lift her into a body bag. Her right arm swings free of their grips as the Gen 2s lift her. Something about her hand unsettles him. It is an ordinary hand. A hand like his. Graceful fingers that were once weapons and dealt untold amounts of death and destruction. It is limp, now, the life gone out of it. Now it is only a hand. A perfectly ordinary hand, and it is dead. Like she is. The arm is placed inside the bag, and she is obscured from his view as it is zipped close. He sees all this, and is grateful for the glasses. He thinks if it were not for them, in this moment, his eyes might betray him to Ayo. he does not break in the recitation of his report once, and Ayo is none the wiser. More synths appear, mops and buckets in hand to clean up the pooled blood where X3-55 recently lay. He recognizes one of them. It is one of his retrievals, blank-eyed and obedient. X6’s gut churns in a way he does not recognize. He finishes his report, and Ayo nods before giving him leave to return to his primary mission. X6 does, relief flooding him as the walls of the Institute disappear from around him. He has come far too close to being undone this day.

-

He has been gone too long. The doors of Corvega are hanging open. He slips inside, searches the building. She is no longer here. The raiders have not fared well at her hands. They are all dead, now. He steps over their bodies and satisfaction and pride mingle in his chest. He should not have worried. She can take care of herself. She is a Courser in all but origin. As he is leaving the assembly floor, he hears a whimper. He stops, training his ears on the sound, and follows it. One raider yet lives. The shot to his chest should have been fatal, but the barest fraction of an inch has spared him. X6 stands silently, watching the raider beg for aid. There are no listening ears here. No voices to answer his cries. They have all been silenced. X6 flips off his stealth, and the raider lets out a low scream of terror at the sight of him. He tries to move, but cannot. His spinal column has been severed, and he will never move again. X6 steps closer, crouching, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You are a fool.” His words make the raider flinch, eyes squeezing shut in fear. “Rabbits have no business fighting dragons.”

He watches the raider suffer for several long minutes before he stands at last. He turns and leaves the raider to his slow end. He understands, now. The difference between those who earn mercy and those who do not. If he could turn back the clock, he would give X3-55 the mercy she asked for. He will not give the scum wallowing in his own blood on the assembly floor any such mercy.

He curses himself for not noticing the sprinkling of blood leading out of the plant. He was so focused on the open doors, on finding her, that he missed it entirely. He follows them to the road, until they slow and eventually stop. He picks up his pace, running along the road. The sun is setting, painting the sky with fire. She can’t be far. Not if she is wounded, and only recently left the plant. She will head back to Sanctuary, he is sure of that much. That is her home base now. He rushes on, telling himself the concern he feels is only concern over the mission. Surely it is not concern for her. She is tough. She will survive her injury.

He catches sight of her as she approaches the Red Rocket outside of Sanctuary, and feels momentarily boneless with relief. The dog turns back to look in his direction, mouth wide in a grin, tongue lolling. She trudges on, and he can see from the way she carries herself that she is in pain. She is pressing something to her left shoulder. It is the bandanna she tied around her neck earlier that morning, the faded blue fabric now purple with the blood that has soaked it through. There is no exit wound. A gunshot wound, perhaps. If so, the bullet is still lodged in there. He knows what that means. It means she has not taken anything for it. A stimpack would only result in the flesh knitting back together around the bullet. Infection would set in shortly after. She cannot treat the injury until the bullet is retrieved. Perhaps Preston will help her. The man is capable enough, for a wastelander. 

She does not seek out Preston. She continues through Sanctuary, ignoring the eyes on her, until she stands on her own doorstep. She turns the knob and enters. He can’t follow her. Close quarters will betray him. He thinks he knows where she is going, though, and he moves around to the other side of the house. From here, he can see into the bathroom. The wall is in poor repair, panels missing and framework showing through. She leans against the sink, exhausted. A bead of sweat trickles down her temple, pools at the point of her chin, before falling. He watches its path, fascinated somehow. She unfastens her chest plate, slowly, painfully. It would be easier if she asked someone for help, but he knows she won’t. She lets it fall to the floor, steel plates clanging against the barren floor. She attacks the buttons of the shirt, next. The green plaid is ruined, the left side of it soaked with blood and torn where she ripped it to better reach the wound. It is a shame. He rather liked it on her.

He feels he should move, leave, grant her some privacy. He does not. His feet are rooted to the ground as surely as any tree. She is down to her navel, now, and he can see the long strip of golden skin where the shirt gaps. She is wearing a sports bra again, to his relief. It lessens the guilt he is feeling as he watches. _I was told to watch,_ he tells himself. _I am following orders._ She shrugs off the shirt, grunting in pain at the movement in her shoulders. Fresh blood weeps from the injury. He can see the drying tracks of blood down her left arm, where rivulets of it made their way down to her fingertips. _The blood drips leading out of Corvega._

He notices things he did not before, when his fit of shyness banished his eyes from focusing too long on her. She is covered in scars. Some are old, so faded they almost blend into her skin. Some are newer, still pink and bearing the stretched-tight appearance of recently healed skin. A staccato of scars up one side, as though she caught shrapnel from a grenade. Bullet wounds, still puckered where the rounds entered. Long cuts, perhaps from knives, the dotted scars from accompanying stitches still visible. She has the body of a woman who has known pain, and caused her share of it.

It is a serious wound. It is not a bullet wound, as he initially surmised. It is a wide, deep cut. A machete, perhaps. Or a sword. A large knife. Something with a wide, vicious blade. It will need stitches. He wonders why she has not taken a stimpack, then. It would have at least stopped the bleeding as she walked back to Sanctuary. 

She takes a pair of forceps out of her medical kit, and he has his answer shortly. She explores the injury with the forceps, making low sounds of pain in her throat as agony radiates through her from the contact to her savaged shoulder. Her face is a good two shades paler than normal, and he can see her struggling to stay focused through the ordeal. She finds what she is looking for, and adjusts the forceps. Slowly, painfully, she extricates the object. It is the broken tip of a knife, once lodged in her scapula and now held tightly in the grip of the forceps. She lets the forceps and piece of knife clatter into the sink. Blood is flowing freely, now. She pulls a bottle of vodka from beneath the sink and twists the cap off. He watches as she pours it into and over the wound, her teeth bared and her eyes glittering fiercely as it burns her torn flesh. She doesn’t cry out, even now. Her skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He realizes his hands are pressed to the wall.

The knuckles on her left hand are white from gripping the edge of the sink. She sets the vodka down and picks up a stim pack, stabbing it into her left shoulder and injecting the healing cocktail within. She waits for the relief to set in, and it does shortly after. Some color comes back to her face, and she reaches into her medical kit again. She produces surgical thread and a dermal needle. He watches, more shocked than he has ever been in all his existence, as she methodically stitches the injury herself. She could have asked anyone in Sanctuary for help, but instead she chooses to do it herself. Her capable fingers make surprisingly quick work of the task, and once she reaches the end and anchors the stitch, she snips the thread and secures a sticky bandage over the site.

Her head lifts from her task, and she gets that look in her eyes that often appears when she senses she is being watched.

“I know you don’t understand the point of doing this,” she says to her reflection. “But I can’t reach him without help. This is what I have to do. I have to give a little to gain a little. I can’t take on the Institute alone.”

She is speaking to her brother again. Her voice always takes on a certain inflection when she does, he notes. It is lower, husky, the edge of sorrow shadowing every word. He wishes he could tell her the truth. If she only knew what awaited her, she would not feel this way. She would not waste another second chasing down menial tasks for a band of settlers who would forget her name within hours of her death. She will be appreciated in the Institute. They will see her for what she is and fall in line. She will take Father’s place as Director, and usher in the greatest age yet. He is sure of it. 

She does not climb up onto the roof tonight, choosing instead to slump in a worn chair with the remainder of the vodka in her hand. He misses her presence there, and the night he spends in his observation post feels somehow terribly lonely. The dragon does not come, and smoke does not rise up to greet the stars.


	4. God and Country

He wakes to something wet and warm against his face. He immediately opens his eyes to assess the threat, and finds himself staring into the large brown eyes of a dog.  _ The  _ dog. The tongue extends again, dragging a slimy path up his cheek.

“Stop,” he protests, rolls out of the way. He wipes at his face and his hand comes away sticky. The dog pursues, nudging a cold nose against his neck. He extends his hand and clumsily strokes the dog’s head. Dogmeat. That is his name. He has never pet an animal before, but he mimics the things he has seen countless humans do. A few strokes, then rubbing behind the ears. Dogmeat grins in delight, eyes half closing as X6 goes through the motions of human affection. He is surprised to feel his mouth pulled at the corners in a smile. He withdraws his hand, but only to remove the glove before resuming his work.

Dogmeat’s fur is thick, warm. He runs his fingers through it, and the sensation is pleasing. He can feel the dog’s life force beneath the heavy coat. He rests his hand on Dogmeat’s shoulder, and a pulsing heartbeat meets his fingertips. He can see why Frankie likes this creature. There is something soothing about these motions, about the way Dogmeat cocks his head to assist in finding the perfect spot. He wonders if Dogmeat is part of the reason she exhibits little need for human connection. Perhaps the dog is enough, and she has no reason to extend the fabled olive branch.

“You are like us,” he tells the dog. “Unafraid of the things you should be.”

Dogmeat only answers with another lick to his face.

He checks the skyline. It is just beginning to lighten. Robin’s egg blue bleeds into midnight, with gold just tipping the hills. Frankie will be up soon, if she isn’t already. He downs a ration pack, chases it with water, and flips his stealth field back on. She is up, moving around in the house. She has changed her clothes. Now she wears a white undershirt and a pair of black pants with useful pockets and pouches. Something about the lines of her body in the white undershirt, lit by the dim light of oil lamps, makes his mouth go suddenly dry. He feels as though he hasn’t had any water in days. There is little left to his imagination, and he cannot understand the effect it is having on him. He has seen bodies entirely bared many times. In the Courser quarters, they sleep in bunks and share communal showers and locker rooms. It is simply part of life. No synth has ever been given private quarters, and though he may be Father’s favorite, he is handed no special concessions. Physical contact between synths is absolutely forbidden unless it is within the parameters of given assignments. To be caught in such an act means immediate deactivation and reprogramming. Until now, he has never touched anyone other than when in battle or in retrieval. He should not feel anything when he looks at Frankie now, but he  _ does. _ A small voice whispers to him.  _ Malfunctioning. You are malfunctioning. You must report this.  _

_ If I report it, I will lose her,  _ he whispers back, teeth clenched. The phrase feels like a betrayal. He is an Institute Courser. He owns nothing, possesses nothing, that is his to lose. But somehow he has a sense of ownership when it comes to her. She is his project. She is  _ his  _ mission. He cannot let another Courser step in. They wouldn’t understand. It wouldn’t be the same. He is the best, he is Father’s chosen second. This is a job for him and him alone. That is the only reason he is feeling this way, the only reason he fears such a loss. He has never failed on a mission, and he will not now. Not with her.

She looks better today. Rest and the stimpack have made a measurable difference in her stature and expression. Her eyes are clear, no longer clouded by pain. Their token sharpness has returned to them, and he watches as she flips through logs on her Pip-Boy while she eats a breakfast of cold venison stew. When she is finished, she pushes the bowl away and rises. He loses sight of her as she disappears into the back bedroom. When she returns, she is holding her gear and pack. He watches as she suits up to leave again, clasping the chest plate back in place. She examines it, frowning, her fingers feeling all the vulnerable gaps in it. She will need better gear, unless she wants a repeat of the prior day’s events. Her handmade chest rig is of little use in a true fight.

She finishes her preparations and leaves the old house, not bothering to close the door behind her. There is little protecting the interior of the home from the elements, and she is beyond caring. He wonders if she considers it a home, or if it is merely someplace to store her belongings and sleep. Preston greets her at the entrance to Sanctuary. He, like Frankie, is an early riser. She tells him of her success at Corvega. She does not tell him about being stabbed, or bleeding the entire walk back to Sanctuary, or about how she stitched her own wound closed. She tells Preston what he needs to hear, and leaves it at that. The rest is held close to her chest, as always.

X6 wishes he knew what her story was. What was she, before the war? All signs point to soldier, but even for someone so versed in the art of war, she is cold and hard and unyielding. A rocky field in which nothing can find purchase. 

Days, then weeks, pass. He watches as Frankie carves her way through the Commonwealth with unflagging relentlessness. Faith in the Minutemen blooms once more in the hearts of the people each time Frankie responds to a call for aid. Sometimes, it is a relatively easy task. Finding a lost child, or standing guard over brahmin and ambushing the raiders preying on them. On one occasion, she assists two farmers in digging ditches to run their irrigation pipe. The sight of her working side by side with them, sweat on her brow and a shovel in her hands, baffles him. To what end is the doing of such menial labor? Father would never deign to lower himself to such a task. Father believes all things have a place. The Institute’s place is to lead mankind. A synth’s place is to serve. And yet, the last of his bloodline is standing in a trench and delving her shovel into the hard earth.

He begins to leave things out of his reports. It is not that he wishes to lie… he only feels an instinctual need to protect her. He wants Father to believe she is everything he seeks in a future leader. X6 does not mention the ditch digging. He does not mention the way she closes the eyes of every fallen innocent she comes across. He does not speak of her easy smile whenever the dog is around. To do so would be to weaken her in Father’s eyes. He cannot diminish her so. If Father should lose faith in the idea of her, then perhaps she will not be allowed into the Institute. The thought of her gunned down before she can step foot in the atrium makes him feel queasy.

_ Malfunctioning. You are malfunctioning.  _ The wicked little voice whispers to him following each failure to report every detail. It is there when he gazes on her sleeping form and feels something like longing stir in his bones, or in the times when he must fight the urge to step in and help her. 

The missions are not always gentle. She is not always given simple tasks. More often than not, they are dangerous. Super mutants capture and devour an entire family, and Frankie goes after them with a terrible light in her eyes. She comes out the victor, but gains a permanent limp from the bullet that tears through her thigh. Feral ghouls trap a frightened woman in her home, and Frankie eradicates them - but not before one of them tears a chunk out of her arm with broken, rotten teeth. Each time death comes for her, she laughs in its face. X6 learns to stop worrying, learns to adhere to his role as watcher. Whatever her destiny may be, he has made peace with it.

She eventually finds the remnants of the Brotherhood of Steel squad camped out in Cambridge. He wishes she would keep walking and leave them to their fate, but that is not her way. They have sent out a distress call, and Frankie answers it. Their organization is one best ignored, and aiding them in any way will only cause trouble for the Institute later. He watches from a low rooftop as she joins the fight against feral ghouls unfolding on the steps of the old police precinct. The noise only draws more of the creatures from the streets of Cambridge, and the firefight reaches a crescendo as she and the Paladin fight back to back. The ghouls stop coming, and both Frankie and the Paladin lower their weapons and take stock of each other. He frowns with disapproval when she exchanges words with the Paladin known as Danse and ends the exchange with a clasping of hands. 

She follows the Paladin to ArcJet systems, and disappears into the old building behind him. X6 smiles grimly to himself. The true test lies within, for on his wrist device he can see the signals of Institute synths inside. They must be here combing the place for resources. He does not think they will attempt to harm Frankie, but the Paladin is fair game. How appropriate it would be for the man to meet his end at the hands of Institute technology. He waits, perched atop the roof. An hour is gone, but he does not move from position. Birds settle on the rooftop with him, and he nods his head in vague acknowledgement. They, like he, are watchers. It could be they are all organic, but he knows better. The Institute sees and knows all, and with their machines inside, the heads in SRB will be watching. If they are watching, then he is showing up like a bonfire through the infrared lenses behind the beady black eyes of the motley creatures. He resents the intrusion.

Sound from the back of the building. An elevator, clattering its way to the surface. He reaches the edge of the roof to look down as Frankie and the Paladin exit the facility. The Paladin is dragging something behind him. It is the remains of a Gen 2 synth, a laser round through the chest. Directly over the pulmonary capacitor.

“I don’t know what the hell you want with that thing,” Frankie gestures at the machine being towed behind Danse. “You killed it.”

“It is solid proof of the Institute,” the paladin answers. “Until now, we have had only stories. If we are able to crack whatever is in its head, we may have access to valuable intel. When our reinforcements arrive, they will study this synth at length.”

X6 smiles to himself. A Gen 2 carries nothing of value, other than the cost of the parts used to create it. That much is not concerning. What does concern him is the revelation about reinforcements. A handful of near-dead recon soldiers is one thing. Reinforcements - true numbers, with firepower to back them - is another matter entirely. He will be sure to report it to Father on his next return. Danse’s voice brings him back into focus. 

“You had a lot thrown at you back there, and handled yourself well. Tell me, were you a soldier before being put in stasis?”

He can’t see her face, only the top of her head when she answers. Her voice is even, deadpan.

“Why would you think that?”

Danse cocks his head at her, as if to say,  _ You’re not fooling anyone.  _ “Because I know someone with training when I see it. You make some of the finest soldiers I know look like nursemaids.”

A low chuckle. It is like velvet brushing against his skin. “You could say that. Does it matter?”

“It does,” Danse’s voice is resigned. He is realizing he will not squeeze water from this stone. “Listen, I’d like to make you an offer. I’d like you to consider joining the Brotherhood. I cannot give you a position higher than Initiate, but when Elder Maxson arrives, he can make the decision to grant you the rank of Knight. I think you would make an outstanding soldier, and that the Brotherhood can assist you in your one-woman war against the Institute.”

She takes her time answering, pulling a cigarette from her pack before returning it to a pocket. She flicks the old Zippo lighter once, twice, before it catches.

“An interesting proposal. I don’t normally do that kind of work without pay,” she says the words through a cloud of smoke. Danse doesn’t flinch as she blows it towards him. “I’m a little past the whole serving-god-and-country bit.”

This is more info than he’s been able to gather while tailing her in the last three weeks. Was she… a  _ mercenary _ , then?

“I’m not sure God or country apply here,” Danse replies carefully. He is hungry for her cooperation, but senses the hesitancy. “You will be serving the greatest purpose of all. Protecting the remnants of humanity. As for pay… The Brotherhood would provide you with exemplary equipment and weaponry, as well as a place to lay your head and aiding in your endeavors. Would you rather eke out a mediocre life in the wasteland? Taking odd jobs, planting crops, waiting for old age or a super mutant to take you? This is a chance to make your life mean something.”

“I’ve lived past my expiration date many times already,” she tells him. “At a certain point, you just wait for it to come.”

“Think on it,” he urges her. “That’s all I ask. If you change your mind, I will be waiting back in Cambridge.”

“I’ll consider the generous offer.” Her voice has a hint of sarcasm to it. As though a bunk in the Brotherhood barracks is hardly a generous offer. Danse misses the sarcasm, only nods and looks pleased. He extends his hand and they shake once more, before he turns and leaves her standing outside ArcJet. She watches him go thoughtfully, curls of smoke rising from the cigarette.

“Can you believe this shit?” She is speaking to the dog now, and he perks his ears and looks up in response to her voice. “I take a two hundred year long nap, and everyone is still trying to recruit me. I must be  _ some _ kind of magnet.”

She leaves ArcJet shortly after Danse. He knows she wants to create distance between herself and the paladin. She needs time in her own head, and idle conversation will only interrupt it. The sun is low in the sky, and she does not turn back towards Sanctuary. Night will fall soon, and she won’t make it back before then. She opts for Greentop Nursery, just up the hill from Cambridge. The robots have been more than friendly to her since she helped them sort out the issue with contaminated water. He follows her as far as the crest of the hill before falling back. He has learned many things today. Some of them, he will share with Father. Some of them he will tuck away in his heart. Morsels that are for him only. A voice whispers from somewhere far away, but he ignores it. When she is gone and the horizon has swallowed her dwindling form, he teleports back into the Institute.  _ Sleep well, my dragon,  _ is his parting thought.

-

Father is indisposed. X6 is told he cannot accept an audience right now, and is ordered to wait to be sent for. With nothing else to do, X6 returns to the Courser barracks. He has not been here since being assigned as a watcher. It is just as he remembers it - clean, sterile, organized. Every item is in its place, each sheet folded under just so. He finds himself approaching a bunk. It is not his bunk. This bunk belonged to the Courser designated as X3-55. Her possessions are still here. No replacement Courser has been assigned yet, and so there is little incentive for any janitorial synth to remove everything. He cannot explain why, not to himself nor to anyone should they ask, but he is drawn to it. He sits on the bunk, smooths the pillow with his hand. A matter of weeks ago, X3-55 slept here. Her head rested in the still-present slight indentation of the pillow. The day she defected, she rose from sleep knowing she would never come back. She made her bed, smoothed the wrinkles from the utilitarian bedding, showered and dressed, and walked out of the Institute forever.

He realizes he is pressing his hand into the pillow, and something crinkles beneath. He withdraws his hand, lifting the pillow. There is a slip of paper beneath, folded in half. He can see the ghost of words through the blank backing. He opens the folded paper, removing his glasses to better see the elegant script written on its surface. It is a poem, followed by a message beneath. X6 has no use for reading. It is an idle pastime for humans, one that is often discouraged in synths... but nonetheless he reads the words once, then again, and thrice. His lips move with them.

_ i carry your heart with me(i carry it in _

_ my heart)i am never without it(anywhere _

_ i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done _

_ by only me is your doing,my darling) _

_ i fear _

_ no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want _

_ no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) _

_ and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant _

_ and whatever a sun will always sing is you _

_ here is the deepest secret nobody knows _

_ (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud _

_ and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows _

_ higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) _

_ and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart _

_ i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) _

_ J, _

_ E.E. Cummings can say it better than I ever could. I am leaving, and I don’t have the courage to face you. It is better this way. If I told you, then I know you would weaken my resolve until I stayed. That is your way; softening me, shaping me like water shapes a stone. Be strong. Be brave for me. It is my sincerest hope that someday you find your way up into the sunlight, too, and fate brings us together once more. There are no words with which to tell you how sorry I am. If I tell you, I will stay. If I stay, I will lose the little bit of humanity you have given me. I love you, J. Think of me fondly, if you can. _

There is no signature. Whoever J is, they would know X3-55 had written this. He stares at the letter. He must turn it in to SRB immediately. It is unclear if J is another synth or a human, but either way, such things are absolutely forbidden. J must be found out and face the consequences for their illicit dalliance. 

His body does not respond to his vague mental commands. His limbs do not propel him up, do not move. He only sits and stares at the letter, paralyzed by the betrayal of his own body.  _ Malfunctioning,  _ the voice in his head screams. He closes his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut, forcing the voice down. He folds the letter up, bending it over again and again until it is a small and thick square. He puts it in a pocket, one close to his chest. He has no clue what he intends to do with it or why he is hiding it, but there is an urgency to the action. A sense that he must do it. That it is important.

When he is finally summoned to Father’s quarters, he passes Doctor Volkert on the way out. Father is resting on his couch, face pale and drawn when X6 enters.

“Sir,” X6 greets him. In his mind, he is terrified his guilt will show through on his features. That Father will sense the betrayal and somehow find it in the lines of X6’s face. He stands ready, not sure if he will run or confess. Perhaps both. 

Father does not see the turmoil in X6. He is distracted. The circles under his eyes are deeper and darker than they have ever been. He is unable to pace today, unable to raise enthusiasm from his diseased body. He gestures tiredly for X6 to take a seat. The invitation surprises him. Father has never bade him sit before. Humans sit. Synths stand at attention until told to do otherwise. He sits, stiff and uncomfortable. Father looks at him for a long moment, and once more X6’s heart pounds. Are his…  _ palms _ sweating?

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep this secret from the board,” Father tells him. “Tell me, how are things progressing with our little project? Is she any closer to finding us?”

X6 relays his report, skimming over certain details but making sure to include the intel on Brotherhood doings. The lines on Father’s face deepen at the news, and he allows his head to rest in his hands with a sigh. X6 pauses, unsure if he should continue.

“Sir?”

“This was an idiotic idea. The final graspings of a dying man, X6-88.” Father’s voice is heavy with exhaustion. He raises his head and looks at X6. “I am calling you off the case. She is clearly taking her time finding us; the one thing I do not have. I cannot continue to get my hopes up, only to hear she is busy rescuing traders from rad roaches while the Brotherhood is all but knocking at our door. I will no longer divert resources to her doings. Return to SRB. They have more need of you than I. We have lost two more synths in the weeks you have been tailing Franka.”

He does not miss the name. It is the first time Father has let it slip, said something other than  _ my aunt  _ or  _ the last of my line.  _ Franka. Frankie. He weighs them both, decides he prefers the informal moniker. X6 feels a variety of motions, then. Something like despair floods him. Anger, at being pulled away. A sense of failure. Disappointment. He has grown accustomed to the routine, her face a daily ritual. Now he is being cast back into Ayo’s clutches, made to chase down and return quarry. They are rabbits, and he prefers his dragon. He keeps his face a mask of cold professionalism, though behind it he is all but collected. He inclines his head, acknowledges his orders. Father dismisses him, and he leaves. His gloved fists are clenched tight at his sides. He does not notice until the pressure against his fingernails becomes too uncomfortable to bear, and he releases them.

_ Obey, _ the voice whispers.  _ You are an Institute Courser, it is what you were made for. Obey, and leave your precious dragon to the wasteland.  _

The square of folded paper in his pocket burns him, hotter than a firebrand.

  
  



	5. Cordwood

Each passing day feels as though it has no end. He is resentful of his duties, his heart no longer in them. With each synth he hunts, he wonders if they are the one known as  _ J _ . How will he know if he encounters them? He cannot ask. To ask would be to reveal too much, to incriminate himself. No signs are given, and so he is forced to carry out his missions. He thinks he can understand, just a little, how X3-55 began to unravel. She met someone, cared for them. She broke the most paramount of Institute laws, and it was the beginning of the end. It weakened her, made her see her quarry as more than lost property. No doubt each time she dragged another synth back to the Institute, she saw her beloved  _ J  _ in them. Heard J in their cries, in their tears. They were mirrors of the malfunctions she was experiencing.

He does not see Frankie again for two weeks. It is pure happenstance, though he has entertained disobeying orders many times. He is searching the ruins outside of Goodneighbor for clues on a runaway, when he hears a familiar voice. His heart lurches.  _ Malfunctioning.  _ He moves to the roof’s edge and looks down. It is  _ her.  _ She is walking down the street, the old synth known as Detective Valentine beside her. For once, the dog is not with her. She is bloody, beaten, looking like something chewed her up and spit her out. Her nose is bent at an angle, swollen. One eye has a flowering bruise that promises to turn a fantastic shade of purple. She moves painfully, her token limp more pronounced. She has been in a fight, and from the looks of her, a serious one.

“I hope this contact of yours knows what she is doing. If she damages the implant…”

“She won’t,” the detective reassures her. “She’s familiar with Institute technology. She’s our best chance at accessing Kellogg’s memories.”

Kellogg. Memories flood X6, bringing with them the sour taste he often associates with the vagabond mercenary. Kellogg is like X6 in that he is a highly efficient killer. He is unlike X6 in every other way. While X6 values quick, no nonsense kills… Kellogg enjoys suffering. There is a meanness in him that only humans seem to possess. A desire to create misery and mayhem. X6 has seen Kellogg’s handiwork, the unnecessarily maimed corpses of his targets. X6 kills because he is ordered to. Kellogg would kill even if there wasn’t money in it for him. X6 knows if given the chance, Kellogg would happily kill him. Their associations are curt, professional, only the barest words used.

They are speaking of an implant, of accessing Kellogg’s memories. That can only mean one thing. They have the cybernetic implant from Kellogg’s brain. Frankie is a woman of many talents, but she is no brain surgeon. There is only one way she retrieved that implant, and the realization of what she has done makes X6 smile grimly. Kellogg has taken a chunk out of Frankie, but Frankie has taken more than a chunk out of Kellogg. A fitting end for the man who killed her twin. He wishes he could have been there to watch her face when Kellogg died, to hear her final words to him before she took her vengeance. He is sure that despite her battered appearance, Kellogg fared much worse.

It is a day for good news. Kellogg is dead, and Frankie is near to discovering a way into the Institute. Father will be pleased with this report. Perhaps he will put X6 back on the case, to watch as Frankie puts the pieces together and at last takes her place at Father’s side. It cannot come too soon. Father is growing more frail with each day, feigning other business to avoid the scrutiny of his board. People within the Institute are noticing, talking. They look up at Father’s balcony and point and whisper until X6 walks past them, his presence silencing their words. He is eager to report in, and he is not sure if it is for Father’s benefit or out of a desire to speak highly of Frankie to someone. Anyone. She is coming. She is clearing a bloody swath before her, let none stand in her way.

He abandons his search for clues and returns to the Institute. He is made to wait outside Father’s door. Father is in discussions with the board. Institute business, of which X6 is not permitted to attend. He takes up position outside the room, feet shoulder width apart and hands clasped at his waist. He is a statue. Synths pass, their body language cautious and wary. He examines each face from behind his glasses. Which one of them is the one known as  _ J?  _ Is it the female synth with her hair tied back in a tight bun, head bowed as she hauls a mop bucket full of soapy water past? Her nerves in his presence make her careless, the foam and water sloshing against her legs. She looks up, her mask slipping for a moment. There is fear there. Naked, abject fear. Two weeks ago, he might have reported her for a display of such emotion. It is the first marker of a runner. Today, he only shifts his gaze elsewhere. Perhaps  _ J  _ is the man trimming the small decorative plants. He looks innocent enough, face blissfully unaware as he tends to his task, but X6 knows better than anyone that a wealth of things can be found behind a passive expression like that.

The board members begin to filter out of the room, and Ayo stops when he sees X6 standing there.

“Did you complete the retrieval already?” He asks, brows raised. 

“I have postponed the completion of my mission. I have urgent news for Father.” X6 keeps his voice level, dry, though he knows it won’t matter. Ayo will still react unfavorably.

“Let me guess,” Ayo sneers. “News on his precious family project. I don’t see the point in resurrecting a relic of a time past. We have no need for such trifling affairs. Return to your mission at once, X6-88. You are wasting precious minutes standing here like a deaf and dumb statue.”

“I will return as soon as I have made my report.” He is firm, calm. He is more afraid of a fly buzzing around brahmin dung than he is of Ayo, and Ayo knows it. It infuriates him. The nostrils of his pinched nose flare, and his gaze darkens.

“Are you refusing a direct order, unit X6-88?”  _ Unit.  _ It is a word Ayo throws in front of his designation like an insult. It is a tactic he does often with his Coursers, a tightening of the leash. It is a reminder that X6 is nothing but a machine, a tool, in service to a higher authority. X6 knows what the word is intended to do, but a negative reaction to it is beneath him. 

“My primary function is still to serve Father as he sees fit,” he tells Ayo flatly. “I will return to the chase once that is done.”

“You answer to  _ me,”  _ Ayo growls. “As head of the SRB, all Courser logistics are in my domain. Return to your mission or I will have that big head of yours wiped.”

“You will do no such thing, Justin.” Father’s mellow voice interrupts what is sure to be a lengthier tirade, and he appears in the doorway. He looks strong, vital. X6 knows it is a front. Father is a master of projecting an image. He has to be, to protect his secret until it is time to reveal his plan. “X6 is here at my behest. Please, leave us. He will return to his work after our discussion.”

Ayo’s fury cools immediately, replaced by a mask of false obeisance. 

“Of course, Director. My apologies.” He glides down the hallway smoothly, without so much as a glance at X6.

“Sometimes I wonder if putting him in charge of the SRB was the right call,” Father muses, more to himself than X6. He is watching Ayo’s back as it retreats. “He was hungry for the position, eager to tell me the things I wished to hear. Now I wonder if he is not the reason synths are so keen to leave the Institute. They are afraid of him, afraid of his Coursers. Perhaps his reign is a bit too… totalitarian for such an important department.”

X6 does not comment. He knows the words are not intended for him, and they demand no answer. Father does this often, speaking aloud introspectively. Perhaps X6’s presence brings it out in him, though it is always a one-sided discussion.

Father’s eyes clear, and he returns his gaze to X6. “You had information you wished to relay to me? Come inside, and tell me what is worth invoking Ayo’s wrath.”

He looks pleased at the information. X6 finishes his report, and Father actually  _ smiles.  _ It is a strange expression, paradoxical in the way humans often are. The expression is one of happiness, but there is no joy in it. Only… sadness.

“So she has gotten her revenge,” he says softly. “Good. It was her right. I wasn’t sure she would survive such a thing, even knowing how capable she is. I am glad to hear it.”

“Do you wish me to resume tailing her?” X6 hates himself for asking, for showing his hand, but he cannot seem to help himself.

“Yes, but… not so vigilantly as before. We know her character, now, and we know she is more than capable. Check in on her from time to time, but otherwise continue to report to Ayo. I will leave the frequency and occasion to your own judgement.”

His blood sings in a way that is strange and new to him, but he only nods solemnly at the given freedom.

“And X6-88… Be careful with Ayo. You know better than anyone that I will not always be around to mitigate his temper,” Father warns.

“Of course, sir,” he replies automatically. The malfunctioning part of him dreads such a day. He is loathe to return to his place beneath Ayo’s thumb. When Father dies and Frankie takes up his mantle, will she rule with the same passive approach, he wonders. _No,_ he decides. She would never allow a man like Ayo to retain power. He has a momentary fantasy of Ayo being stripped of his position and sent to the sanitations department. It is a mental image that he finds enjoyable, and he dwells on it a moment too long. Father is looking at him curiously, his sharp eyes perceptive.

“What are you thinking about, X6-88?” The question is casual, but X6 is unsettled by it. He has been caught daydreaming, and Father must not have missed whatever fleeting emotion it bore.

“My apologies, sir. I was thinking about the synth I was tracking this morning. Now that I have made my report, I should return to that task.”

Father gives him an enigmatic smile. “Yes, of course. Return to your duties, X6. Let me know if anything changes.”

Goosebumps rise on the back of X6’s neck as he takes his leave, and he knows Father’s eyes on his back as he departs. Knowing eyes, eyes that have seen through cracks in the facade.  _ Malfunctioning,  _ comes a familiar whisper.  _ He knows.  _

-

He returns to Goodneighbor in time to see her walk out of the Memory Den alone. It makes sense that she would come here, to a woman who’s stock and trade is buried memory. Frankie’s face is paler than normal, the freckles on her nose standing out. She looks as if she has seen a ghost. Perhaps she has. There is no telling what memories were within the implant, but if X6 were to make an educated guess, he would say the death of her twin and the abduction of Father were among them.

She leans against a wall for support, takes a long drag of her cigarette. Her eyes are fixed on the Third Rail, and it is clear she is weighing a choice. She can stop for a drink and numb the shock of what she just went through, but if she does, she opens herself to prying eyes and local gossip. Her usual reaction to moments of duress is to withdraw, but something is different this time. She finishes her cigarette, throws it to the ground and stamps on it, before moving in the direction of Goodneighbor’s only bar.

He leaves her to it. His business with the escaped synth is not finished, and he does not wish to tangle with Ayo further this day. The sooner he retrieves the synth, the sooner he can return to watching.

He resumes tracking his quarry. His efforts lead him to an old hardware store outside of Diamond City. It is a place he is familiar with, often crawling with raiders. A woman stands in front of the old building. She is clad in the clothing of a trader, but he knows better. Her hard eyes, greasy hair, numerous scars, and the track marks on the insides of her elbows tell another story. She is a raider like the others, strung out on chems. She is bait, crying for help. Her job is to lure unsuspecting people into the hardware store to be robbed and murdered. He decides to humor the ruse, tucking back into an alley momentarily. He flips off his stealth before rounding the corner, allowing her to see him.

“Oh, thank god!” The woman cries in her best impression of relief. Her eyes hold all the sincerity of a dead molerat. “They’re going to kill her! Please, you’ve got to help me!”

She is too far gone to see he is not like the other wastelanders. Too stretched thin from the chems dulling her senses to notice the laser pistol before it is too late. He fires, and she crumples to the pavement. She is an example of what the Commonwealth has to offer; she has squandered the privilege of being human and lived a wasted and empty life. She has chosen a life of brutality, and so brutality has ended her. He steps over her body and lets himself into the hardware store. His boots are silent on the floor, soft rubber soles setting down carefully on the old wood planks.

They don’t see him coming. They are arguing further inside, fighting over a gold pocket watch their last victim carried. He guns them down, one by one, a well-oiled machine pulling the trigger without remorse or hesitancy. Their words die with them, the pocket watch the least of their problems now. 

Broken floorboards reveal the depths of the basement. It is a dumping ground for the dead. Traders, settlers, even other raiders are stacked like cordwood below. He leaps down, averting his trajectory from the piled bodies and landing on the stone floor beside them. They are in varying stages of decay, and in these close quarters the stench is overpowering. He is grateful for the gloves on his hands, pushing and pulling the bodies out of the way without the reverence most humans attribute to the dead. They are not here any longer to protest rough handling, and there are far too many eyelids to push closed.

He finds what he is looking for. The synth is of average height, average build. Her hair and skin is nondescript, mousy. Like most synths, she is built for servitude and not for beauty. There is little that distinguishes her in any way, but he has memorized her face from the dossier. Her designation is J3-43. Before she fled the Institute, she worked in the Institute's nursery. She was charged with looking after and caring for the offspring of the humans. It is considered an honorable position, and she must have been programmed with a caring nature. It is likely the very thing that got her killed. She would not be the sort to walk past a woman crying for help. Foolish. Careless. She should have stayed where she was safe. Now she lies here amongst fallen humans, her throat opened like a tin can. He wonders what would lead a soft-natured synth like her to leave the Institute. She is ill-suited for a place such as the wasteland. Even Coursers are known to encounter peril at times, and they are the best and most capable of synth kind. 

He pulls her from the pile. She has not been dead long. Perhaps a day. He lifts her, throws her over his shoulder. He activates the relay, and the room melts away from around him. He leaves the dead to their rot. 

Ayo is pleased with his expedient return. The terse words from earlier are all but forgotten as X6 strides into SRB once more.

“Excellent! You work quickly. Set her down on the table, here. Let’s have a look at her. Where did you find her?”

He gives Ayo the details, and Ayo shakes his head. “I might have known she’d do something stupid like that. Even when running from us, she was tempted by her programming to aid humans in need. I have  _ told  _ Dr Binet many times that such things only make for useless synths prone to errors. Changing diapers does not require a personality. She has already been reprogrammed once before on suspicion of fraternization.”

“Fraternization, sir?” X6 feigns ignorance, but something is prodding his instincts. Something he does not want to address.

“I keep forgetting how stupid your kind can be in such matters,” Ayo sighs, as though forgiving X6 for such a transgression. “She was caught reading a letter. Some attempt at a love letter, which is just… amusing. We were never able to identify the writer, but she was wiped and reprogrammed immediately. Until now, the error did not seem to be recurring. Clearly the fault is in her construction somewhere.”

Why does he feel cold all over, as if he has stepped into an icy shower? J3-43.  _ J. _ He has solved the mystery, and despite his usual pleasure in solving such things, he feels nothing now. Nothing but cold, in every cell. Frozen, to the core. Ayo does not see, does not notice the shift. Father would, but not Ayo. He has all the perceptive talent of a houseplant.

“You are dismissed for now,” Ayo tells him, now focused on his inspection of the gaping wound from ear to ear on the deceased synth. “I will summon you when your services are needed again. Return to your asinine _human watching_ for now.”

He leaves, teleporting out of the Institute as soon as his boots are clear of SRB. It is the last place he wants to be. He isn’t sure he can trust himself to remain stoic, hands relaxed at his side.

Frankie has made a friend in the bar. A friend who follows her into the Rexford Hotel. X6 does not recognize the man. He is a wastelander, wearing the typical gear one might see on a caravan guard. Road leathers, a bandolier across his chest and pistols at his hips. They are both drunk, though not so much so they cannot walk. He has never seen Frankie this way. She is somewhat breathless, laughing freely. Their hands are too familiar, and X6 does not like it. The large doors shutter behind them, and a sick feeling settles in his stomach. He cannot begin to identify his reasoning for feeling this way, but the thought of the wastelander’s hands on her golden skin makes his insides churn. He thinks about J, lying dead in that basement. Discarded like trash. Alone. She escaped the Institute to find X3-55, and instead fell into the hands of raiders. Everything she felt, everything X3-55 felt… The things they sacrificed… It was absolutely meaningless. J never found the letter meant for her, never knew her lover had bade her goodbye. They had found each other again despite her undergoing reprogramming, only to lose each other once more… Forever, this time.

What was the point of these actions? Why would any synth wish to be more human, when all that awaited them was the miseries that came with it? Why does all of this make his bones  _ ache? _

He leaves Goodneighbor, taking up a position in the streets beyond its walls. Once he is alone again, he pulls the letter out of his pocket, unfolding it until the page is flat once more. He has read these words a hundred times by now  _ (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life), _ his little 2x2 square of guilt pressed against his chest, always burning him. It is fuel for the whispering voice, threatening to undo him. Threatening to unravel all that he is. He is an Institute Courser. He will not be yet another thing for a human to destroy. He crumples the letter, throws it to the ground. He stomps on it, grinds it into the dust, willing it to become dust itself. 

“No more,” he says to himself, to the falling darkness. Nothing answers him but the wind, whistling through the ruined city at his back.


	6. X for Short

He does not follow Frankie again, not for some time. He returns to the Institute, telling himself it is not with his tail between his legs but rather to serve his original purpose. Ayo sends him on missions, and he goes on them stoically. A good synth, an obedient synth. An Institute Courser, functioning perfectly. So he tells himself. He is still not quite right, not quite functioning within normal parameters. At night, he stands too long beneath the hot shower, hands pressed to the wet tile. He imagines the scalding water is melting away the parts of him he has been unable to will away. When he eats, it is too slow. Neither quick nor methodical enough. He cannot seem to help himself, cannot stay focused. In the mornings, he stays too long in his bunk, reluctant to open his eyes. To open them is to lose the visions of Frankie amidst a cloud of roiling white smoke. Frankie, with embers glowing in the depths of those black eyes.

To Ayo, he is a mindless automaton, following orders. To himself, he is trapped in a hell of his own making. He reminds himself that it is all a prewritten script. All he has to do is stick to it. He wakes, he eats, he sleeps, he dreams. The next day, he does it all again. And then one day… when he thinks he cannot bear the separation any longer, despite the vow he made to himself… she appears. The diaphanous, intangible Frankie from his thoughts becomes _real._ The elevator glides down through the atrium, and he is startled to see a familiar shape within. He would know that powerful frame anywhere, know that head of golden hair. She is gone before he can blink, shuttled away in a matter of seconds. She is going to Father.

She is _here,_ and he hardly remembers to breathe. He does not dare eavesdrop on her conversation with Father. Such a thing would never be tolerated. It is private, confidential. He wonders how Father will introduce himself. If he will continue with intrigue, or hold out his arms in the hopes of a tearful reunion. There is no way of knowing. All he can do is wait, and hope she accepts Father’s words with an open mind. Above all things, Frankie is practical. She will weigh the merit of his words, and then demand to see things for herself. She does not take anyone’s word for anything, he knows that much.

Hours pass. He is flipping through dossiers on recently escaped synths, desperately trying to occupy his mind, when the call for him comes. It takes everything in him to control his movements, to remain the image of a Courser down to the immovable lines of his face. He forces himself to walk in his usual way, long strides, purposeful but not eager, down the spiraling stairs to Father’s office. 

She is standing beside Father when X6 enters. Each step brings him closer to her than he has ever been. It is easier to remain in control, now. The long weeks of watching and waiting in silence are at an end. Her black eyes reflect a thousand different facets of light in this bright, sterile room. The effect is almost ethereal. She is relaxed, calm. Her face is unreadable as ever, the Mona Lisa smile the only expression gracing her countenance. The once-lurid bruises are all but gone, the yellowed ghosts of them remaining in their stead.

“Franka, this is X6-88. The Courser I told you about,” Father says. _Father told her about him. What did he say? Did he tell her everything? Does she know he has been at her side, witnessing her every weakness and victory?_ The thought makes his insides twist. “X6-88, this is my aunt, Franka. I have new orders for you. You are to give her a tour of the Institute, and once that is done, you will take her with you to Libertalia. We have a retrieval for you to make.”

“Of course, sir. Ma’am, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he directs the latter to Frankie, inclining his head respectfully. She gives him a long, appraising look before extending her hand to him.

“X6-88. That’s a mouthful. Mind if I call you ‘X’ for short?”

He stares at her hand for a long moment before accepting it. Her fingers are cool, rough. They curl about his in a way that sends warmth shooting up his arm. She gives his hand a firm squeeze, and he returns it in equal measure. One corner of her mouth lifts in amusement. She is not at all what he expected. She is _everything_ he expected. He releases her hand, despite a part of him wanting to grip it longer. The sensation of her palm against his will follow him into his dreams, he is sure of it.

“Please, take your time familiarizing yourself with the place,” Father urges her. “X6-88 will be at your disposal for as long as you require him to be. I will be here, when you have seen all you need to see. My people have been instructed to be nothing but forthcoming with you during your time here. If you experience any friction, X6-88 speaks for me and will set them straight.”

“He’s rather large to be an ambassador,” she comments. Her voice is dry, a hint of amusement to it. That off-handed half smile again.

“All our Coursers are designed so,” Father agrees. “They are meant to be our defenders, our protectors, and our law enforcement. X6-88 is only one of many others.”

“Super soldiers,” Frankie murmurs in a thoughtful sort of way.

They leave Father to his work. Frankie does not know to look for the signs of exhaustion, but X6 does. The hours of speaking with Frankie have worn Father down. His breathing is shallow, his eyes glassy. There is a reason he is not conducting the tour himself. He does not have the strength for it.

X6 leads her out of the office. She speaks as they walk down the steps towards the atrium.

“Do me a favor, X?” She asks.

“If it pleases you, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me Franka. I didn’t want to hurt junior’s feelings back there, but I absolutely hate being called Franka. And don’t call me ma’am, either. This isn’t boot.”

The corners of his mouth threaten to lift, but he only says, “Of course... Frankie. My apologies.”

He leads her to Bioscience first. He has a feeling she will enjoy the sight of the green, lush plants and the gorillas. He is correct. She stands in front of the glass enclosure, eyes gleaming as she observes the beasts.

“Do they please you?” He asks, surprised by his boldness.

“I never thought I’d see a normal animal again,” she admits. “With the exception of Dogmeat, anyway.”

“I thought you might enjoy them,” he tells her. The way she looks at him as soon as the words leave his mouth makes him want to bite his tongue in half. It is a piercing look, analytical. She is searching his face for something, but the glasses hide the only part of him that might betray his thoughts.

“I can’t shake the idea that I know you,” her voice is suspicious, now. Cautious. “And that you know me.”

“We have never spoken until today,” he answers honestly. His heart is pounding in his chest.

“Hmm,” is her only reply before she turns back to the gorillas. “Tell me… are they the first synthetic animals the Institute has made?”

“As far as I know.” He only just manages to stop himself from adding _ma’am_ to the end of the sentence. 

“I have my suspicions about Dogmeat,” she says thoughtfully. “He’s not like other dogs.” A smile touches her lips. She has smiled more in the last half hour than he has ever seen her smile. He supposes finding her nephew, however old he may be now, has lessened the load on her shoulders. “Perhaps he is a canine super soldier. Like you, but less prickly.”

“Less… Prickly?” He does not understand the descriptor. 

“Unapproachable,” she explains. She is moving away from the gorillas now, running her fingers over the shiny leaves of plants. Clayton Holdren approaches her, and X6 keeps his distance as she makes the man’s acquaintance and asks a variety of questions. She is not only interested in the engineering of more hardy plants. She is interested in his thoughts on the Institute. Any chance she has at honest answers is dashed by his presence beside her, but he does not say anything nor does he discourage her. It is not his place. He is an Institute Courser, made to serve.

Their next stop is the SRB. He wants to see what happens when she is in the same room as Ayo. He wants to watch her weigh and measure Ayo like the portion of dung he is. He is not disappointed. Ayo turns on them the second they enter the department. He looks almost furious at the invasion, though he immediately masks it to look something more appropriate. Irritation, disgust. He greets them, and X6 notices two things. One, Frankie does not volunteer her hand first. Two, she ignores Ayo’s hand when offered. It would seem handshakes are not something she gives any more freely than personal information.

“What do you do here, Justin?” She asks once niceties are out of the way.

“Only run the entire department. Our job here is to coordinate the pursuit and retrieval - or elimination - of lost property.” He speaks as if it is an insult to be asked such a question.

“Lost property,” she repeats. There is absolutely no inflection in her tone. It is empty, casual. She is prodding for more.

He senses it, and responds by straightening his spine and puffing out his chest a little more. She dwarfs him by a good three inches, and it makes Ayo uncomfortable. “Yes, lost property. Synths often experience issues in their programming, and it leads to grand delusions. We must retrieve them, for their own safety and to preserve the secrets of the Institute. One might argue that our department is the most important in all of the Institute.”

“You had to create an entire department to mop up security’s inability to control the situation?” It comes out in a harsh New York drawl, each word intentionally lazy. “Sounds like a lot of spilled milk, when you simply need a better jar. One with a lid on it, perhaps.”

Ayo sputters. “The synths have had help from the inside. We have been working on a lengthy internal investigation regarding the matter, not that it is any of your concern. You are not even one of us. You are an outsider, whatever reasons Father may have for keeping you here.”

She cocks her head, dark eyes regarding him for a moment. There is a glimmer of amusement in their depths. She is toying with him, and enjoying it. X6 thinks perhaps the tightness in his chest is something like joy.

“Perhaps I am here to replace _you,”_ she tells him smoothly. “I suppose we will see, in time.” She allows no response. She turns and leaves Ayo staring after them, pink-faced and mouth gasping for words.

He shows her the rest of the Institute. Every nook, every cranny. She takes it all in, her sharp gaze missing no small detail. She is more than he expected. More than all his weeks of observation led him to believe about her. She is… warmer than he expected. He thought she would be more frigid, more reserved. Especially with him. But she is not. She is almost the opposite, a fact that somehow flatters him. She is oddly at ease with him, her manner much like how it is when she is only around the dog. She makes jokes, dry and sarcastic ones. She tells him to shoot her if anyone ever talks her into wearing an Institute jumpsuit. She bets him $5 Ayo is wearing pink lacey underpants. She calls him X, and even though it is only an abbreviation of his designation, there is something special in the gesture. Something that is entirely his and hers. Nobody has ever abbreviated his designation. Nobody has ever assigned him a nickname. _She_ has never assigned anyone else a nickname, to his knowledge.

She is tired by the end of the tour. He sees it in the slope of her shoulders, the redness at the corners of her eyes. It is nearly one in the morning, long past the time she usually sleeps. He offers to take her to some quarters, where she might make herself more comfortable. She considers the offer.

“Where do you sleep?” She asks.

“In the Courser barracks. We have our own bunks.”

She nods. “Then that is where I will sleep, too.”

The statement is unexpected. He feels as though he should backpedal. How would Father feel about such a thing? “Ma’am - ah, Frankie - I am not sure that is the best idea. Such a thing is beneath your station.”

She snorts. “Please, tell me, X… What _is_ my station?”

“You are the last of Father’s line,” his voice sounds stupid to his own ears. She must think him so by now.

“So I’m related to a guy who happened to be the lucky kid stolen by the Institute. I didn’t realize this was a monarchy, and its ruler chosen by God.” She is toying with _him_ now, though not in a malicious manner. She does not understand why he has placed her on such a lofty pedestal.

“I don’t.... Understand those terms, but yes. You are our Director’s family, and should be respected as such.”

She folds her arms and smiles enigmatically. “Then respect my request, and lead the way to your barracks. I want to see them.”

She has him, and she knows it. He lets out a frustrated breath, nods. _You are an Institute Synth. You are made to serve._ “Very well. Follow me. Do you require sustenance before you sleep?

“I’m too tired to be hungry. We’ll worry about that in the morning,” she assures him. He nods again, then leads the way to the barracks.

The barracks are quiet. Some Coursers rest in their bunks, others are on patrols or conducting interrogations or out in the field. On any given night, there are half a dozen bunks empty. He leads her to one in a far corner, more private than the others. When he gestures at it, she raises her eyebrows.

“Where is yours?”

“I am… further down. I thought you might want some quiet.”

“Do me another favor, X?” The Mona Lisa smile is back, face slack of expression.

“Of course.”

“Take off your damn glasses.”

He hesitates. Does he dare remove them? Can he temper his gaze the way she can, hiding behind an empty stare? He has never needed to guard himself from anyone, until the day he began to watch her. She waits, eyes never leaving his face. Slowly, carefully, he reaches up and removes the shades. Her eyes immediately lock onto his, and he feels like one of Doctor Binet’s projects, motionless on a table, waiting for the breath of life. He has never seen eyes like hers, and she is only a couple feet away from him now. _This_ is the closest he has ever been. He imagines he can feel the warmth radiating from her. Her eyes remind him of nights spent on rooftops, staring up into a moonless sky. Lights dance in them and he is lost, lost, lost in a swelling sea of dark.

“Now that we can have a truly open conversation, I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” she says at last. “I don’t know anyone here. I definitely don’t know the man who calls himself my nephew, though I imagine catching up on sixty years of life will take a while. What I _do_ know is this place makes me nervous. When I get nervous, I get trigger happy. So, you’re going to be my safety buddy. I’m going to trust you to watch my back, and make sure none of these scientists get crazy on me while I sleep. I sleep in the bunk next to yours, and I feel a little safer for it. Does all that sit okay with you, X?”

“If that is what you wish,” he assents. She follows him to his bunk, and he makes no more protests. She takes the bunk across from him. He is unsure of what to do with her. Should he offer her a change of clothing? A glass of water? She does not allow him time to dwell on it. She lies down on the stiff mattress, keeping everything on. She is wearing a bomber jacket and a fitted flight suit. No doubt clothing obtained from her new friends in the Brotherhood. He continues to stand for a moment, before shrugging off his long leather coat. 

“I think the wasteland ground might be more comfortable than these beds of yours,” she comments as he sits on the edge of his bed and unlaces his boots. “Tell me, X… Do you like it here?”

He is suddenly aware of the sleeping Coursers all around them, and so he replies, “It is not my place to… like anything. I am an Institute Courser. My prerogatives lie elsewhere.”

“An excellent dodge.” Her voice is flat once more. She does not prompt him further. He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. In time, her breathing slows. He dares to look at her. She is asleep, eyes closed and lips slightly parted. Her pistol is drawn, and she sleeps with one hand loosely gripping it. She sleeps like a warrior. Like someone expecting death. He shifts onto his side and watches her once more. It is different, now, watching her in the open like this. He feels exposed, even though she sleeps. In the dim light, he can see the outline of her nose. The rise and fall of her chest. She is so close he might touch her, if he stretched his hand out. The very tips of his fingers would brush the soft leather of her jacket, and she would wake, fathomless eyes turning to him, gleaming in the dark. He does not move, barely breathes. Only watches, until sleep steals over him like a heavy cloak.


	7. The Most Human Thing

In the morning, he shows her how to utilize the chip Dr Madison Li has installed in the Pip-Boy. She holds her arm out and watches as he expertly dials in on the map displayed on the Pip-Boy’s screen. He selects a point, illustrating it with a marker.

“Once you have triangulated on the position, you simply select the option to teleport. It will take you right where you have commanded it to send you. You can use the relay to go anywhere in the Commonwealth, provided you have the coordinates..” He is trying to focus on his task, and not on his left hand as it holds her arm while he sorts out the controls.

“A useful tool,” she says, viewing the screen once he has released her arm. “It will come in handy and save me a whole lot of walking.”

“I have marked the Libertalia fleet on your map. As soon as you are ready, we will go.”

“Are you not planning to feed me breakfast?” She asks wryly. Her question almost flusters him. He has been so preoccupied, so distracted by her presence, he has entirely forgotten about such things. Courser or not, he requires nourishment, just as she does.

“Of course. My apologies, Ma--, ah, Frankie. Allow me to escort you to the dining area.”

He leads the way through the long white corridors. Frankie is quiet, too busy observing the activity of Institute residents. Her eyes linger on things. The synth scrubbing a floor by hand. A synth leading Institute children to class. Doctor Volkert testing out serums on a synth. He cannot begin to guess at what she is thinking. Her face is the same mask it was when they went to bed. Blank, unreadable. A closed door. This is the disadvantage to being seen, being heard. As a silent watcher, he saw it all. Every flicker of emotion before it was controlled. Now he can only press his forehead to the solid wall she has erected.

A man is arguing at the cafeteria counter. His favorite nutrient supplement has been discontinued, and he argues with the Gen 2 acting as the day’s server. It would be more productive to exchange words with a block of wood, but the man seems oblivious to that fact. He is growing more heated, and Frankie watches the exchange with cold and impassive eyes. X6 decides to intervene.

“Please continue this discussion at another time,” he says. He uses his most intimidating Courser voice. It is the same one he uses when commanding frightened synths to drop their weapons. “You are obstructing the Director’s guest from acquiring her breakfast.”

The scientist turns at the voice, sees X6 towering over him with Frankie standing at his flank, and turns white. He mutters an apology and abandons his post, breakfast forgotten in the face of his fear. Behind him, Frankie chuckles low in her throat. X6 finds the sound of it pleasant, dark. It is a sound he could bear to hear more often.

Frankie steps forward and chooses an item. She does not seem to care what it tastes like or what it does. To her, food is food. She takes her supplement and turns to eye the tables, before she notices X6 is not stepping up to the counter.

“Are you not planning to eat?” She demands, gaze sharpening.

“I will take my nourishment later,” he explains. “Synths do not eat here. There are areas designated for such activities.” In truth, it is expressly forbidden to eat in this cafeteria. This is a place for humans.

“That is ridiculous. Grab something and sit with me. I have questions for you, and would prefer not to wait.” Her voice is authoritative, firm, and loud enough the others dining can hear it. The words are for their benefit more than his. She is giving him an excuse to stay, to eat with her.

He ignores the strange sensation in his chest at that thought, dips his head in assent, and retrieves a nutrient pack for himself. Frankie looks pleased at his surrender and chooses a table overlooking the Atrium. She sits in her chair backwards, straddling it with the back of it flat against her stomach. Her long legs bend, booted feet curved back around the front legs of the chair. He seats himself across from her, though considerably more formally positioned than she is. He feels ill at ease here, with resentful human eyes boring into the back of his neck.

She peels open the nutrient packet, takes a bite of the soft substance. He watches her chew, analyzing the substance.

“It tastes like a glorified granola bar,” she pronounces. “What is it?”

“Each nutrient packet contains all the vitamins, minerals, and proteins needed for a balanced meal,” he tells her. “They are often synthesized to taste reminiscent of more traditional meals, and are based on the yields from hydroponics. I could not say what it is supposed to taste like. Pre-war food, perhaps.”

“I’d have to guess at some point this was something like cranberry crisp,” she decides. “Sweet, a little tart. Not terrible. What supplement do you like best?”

“Every supplement provides the needed nutrients for me to perform my duties. The flavor does not change that fact.” Never, in all his life, has anyone asked him what he _likes_ so frequently. He isn’t sure if she is playing some sort of game with him, or is genuinely curious.

“How forthcoming of you.” The sarcasm is thick in her voice, and it somehow stings him to hear it. She takes another bite of her nutrient packet and watches the people milling about the atrium. He eats, taking careful and neat bites. He doesn’t tell her this, but Supplement 56 is his favorite. He likes that there is a kind of heat to it, and the way it makes his lips burn long after he finishes eating.

When they are finished with their meal, they step out into the Atrium. She pulls up the menu, says, “See you on the other side, X,” and disappears in a column of white light. He is only a moment behind her, cursing his slowness as he puts in his own coordinates. 

She is waiting for him as the old dock facing Libertalia materializes around him. She has her rifle up and is peering down the scope, analyzing the ships bound together and the raiders guarding them. He waits, expectant.

“I’m counting around twenty targets, not including those on the scaffolding up the side of the ocean freighter. Best way to do this will be to split off. You go right, I go left. We meet at the bottom of the scaffolding and take the rest together.”

He nods. “As you command. Be wary of return fire from the raiders with higher ground. You will be vulnerable to attack down here.”

Her lips pull into a somewhat feral grin. “Shall we place a wager, X?”

“A wager?” He is confused. “On what?”

She shrugs. “If I make it to the scaffolding first, you have to answer three questions honestly. Any questions I want to ask.”

“And when I reach the scaffolding first?”

The grin widens. “What prize would you like?”

The question rings through him, vibrations running the length of his nervous system. _To touch your golden skin,_ he thinks. _To know each and every one of your secrets. For you to lay out your soul, bare and yielding, to me._ He shares none of these things. She has given him the world, and he is unable to take it.

“An answer to a question as well, though I do not have so many as you.”

The same low chuckle as before. “Easy enough. Let’s go.”

She is moving before he can register it, running down the rotten wooden planks towards the center ship. If he were human, he would curse. He follows in her steps, laser rifle already firing on the raiders to the right.

He doesn’t believe it when he climbs out of the water and sees her standing at the bottom of the wood stairs. He is an Institute Courser, faster and deadlier than any wastelander. It is what he was designed to be. Somehow, she has bested him - and the wide grin on her face is unlike any expression he has ever seen her wear. It is the most open he has ever seen her. Victory has made her bold. Her dark eyes flash with satisfaction as she takes in his dripping form.

“Went for a swim, did you?”

Something rises up from within him, burbling out like the bubbles in a shaken up Nuka Cola. It is… a _laugh._ He laughs, the sound somewhat choked and uncomfortable as it leaves his reluctant lips. It is short lived, only a burst, cut off before it has a chance to become more. Water drips from his nose, the lobes of his ears. He feels foolish standing before her, as though his arms are somehow too long and his legs too short. 

“I did not want to retrace my steps to the ramp. I did not want to lose,” he manages to explain as he regains control over himself.

“But you _did_ lose,” she informs him. “I will claim my prize after we finish the others off. Can you still fight in that wet jacket?”

“Of course.” There is a touch of indignance in his voice, but he can’t help it. She _winks_ at him and takes the steps up two at a time. He follows, trying to shake the off-balance feeling he seems to experience continuously when in her presence. She is hot and cold, ever-changing. They clear the scaffold one level at a time. They make a good team, rifles firing in a harmonious synchrony. At the top of the scaffolding a raider attacks her from a corner, catches her by surprise. She seizes him by the jacket and pivots, propelling him in X6’s direction. X6 guns the man down, and it is finished. He stops her with a hand on her arm before she opens the door to the captain’s cabin.

“Before you go up… do not damage the synth known as Gabriel. My orders are to retrieve him intact. Speak to him if you wish, but do not damage him. I will issue the recall code when the time is right.”

Her eyes harden, the mask slips into place. “A recall code. Like what Shaun used on the child synth he tricked me with.”

He has touched a nerve with the information, and wonders once more how her meeting with Father went. He is of course familiar with Father’s experiment, the child synth known as S9-23. He is the first of his kind, a prototype based on and created with Father’s own DNA. In all respects, he is a younger version of Father… though he is a synth, whereas Father is natural-born. He feels an almost compulsory need to defend Father.

“I do not believe it was Father’s wish to trick you,” X6 begins, but she cuts him off with a shake of her head.

“No. He definitely did. He told me as much himself. It doesn’t matter. I get the message, loud and clear. Don’t kill the synth until you flip the off switch.”

She doesn’t wait for him to speak again. She pushes the door open and strides through it, body language tight and controlled. The Frankie from his first week of watching is back, the grin at his misfortune replaced with a face chipped from a block of granite. He follows her lead through the cabin and up the ladder to the balcony.

Gabriel, his true designation B5-92, has taken to his life as a raider like a bird to the air. The bodies of slain settlers and caravaneers decorate the balcony in a gruesome display. Behind him, a man swings from a noose made of barbed wire. He is stripped all of all but his underclothes, his body riddled with cuts and burns. He is dead, and the arrival of that relief was clearly a long time coming.

Frankie’s eyes scan her surroundings. She doesn’t seem to hear the words coming from B5-92’s mouth. He is speaking to her, complaining about the Institute coming to rob him. Her eyes are fixated on the numerous dead, her nostrils flaring at the stench of bodies in the warm sun. 

“He is malfunctioning,” X6 whispers to her in a low voice. “This is what Father wanted you to see. This is what happens when there is an error in a synth’s programming.”

“Bullshit,” she tells him, voice flat and empty. “This is the most human thing I have ever seen a synth do.”

B5-92 seems to realize he is being ignored, and fires his gun into the air, demanding their attention. Frankie’s hands tighten around her rifle, and X6 issues the recall code before she can give in to her urge to shoot. B5-92 goes limp, slumped over, and the other raiders send up an alarmed shout before opening fire. Frankie deals with them quickly, two rounds in each of their chests. Quick, concise, clean. Just like a Courser.

She watches in silence as he clips a signal beacon to the deactivated synth before flipping through the menu on his own device.

“Will I see you back at the Institute?” It is more than a simple question. He is asking her if she is ever coming back. If the things she has seen have not scared her away or put her off. He is asking her if he will see her again someday.

“Perhaps,” she tells him, before turning and climbing back down the ladder and into the depths of the cabin below.


	8. To Want

She does not return to the Institute for two days. Father is displeased with him, convinced something he said or did has upset Frankie. X6 is dismissed, and not even Ayo grants him relief by assigning him missions. He is left to wander the Institute, idle and empty, waiting to see if Frankie returns. He lies in his bunk the second night and wonders what he will do if she does not return. He supposes he will do what he was made to do - hunt down and retrieve synths. The prospect no longer thrills him. He no longer enjoys the chase. There is no satisfaction in returning wayward synths to the SRB. He has never wanted more. Never expected there to be anything beyond his usual missions. He has always expected to serve until either enemies or the Institute destroyed his body. But now, lying in the dark and remembering the way Frankie slept only a few feet from him just days ago, he is able to admit to himself that he wants more. He wants to be at her side, to be her right hand when she takes control of the Institute. He wants it in a way that is deep and primal, far beyond any  _ want  _ he has experienced before.

He has wanted water. He has wanted food. He has wanted sleep. The way he  _ wants _ Frankie confuses him. He  _ wants  _ to press the pads of his fingers to the side of her neck, to feel the pulse thrumming there… As vital and wild as she is. He wants to know if her skin is as warm as it looks; If the heat from the sun truly lies just beneath the surface of it. He has watched her on and off for months, known her for just beyond two days, and the thought of wanting her for always and never having anything again  _ aches _ . He presses a hand to his chest, just over where his heart lies, and closes his eyes.

_ i carry your heart with me(i carry it in _

_ my heart) _

He is lost in himself, so much so he does not hear the soft footfalls as they approach. Fingers brush the back of the hand resting on his chest, and he reacts like a coiled snake. He seizes the hand, twists the wrist to the point of near-breaking, eyes flying open in alarm. Frankie is looking down at him, mouth in a tight line at the pain in her wrist but her eyes shining in the dark like something wild.

“Are you going to break it or just keep tickling me?” She asks drily. He releases her at once, bolting up into a sitting position.

“My apologies, ma’am. You startled me.”

“I should know better,” she admits, sitting on the empty bunk across from him. “I keep forgetting you’re an Institute super soldier.”

He wants to talk with her so badly, but he cannot be free here. There are a thousand eyes and a thousand ears listening, and so he remains silent. Obedient. An Institute Courser who only follows orders. Her sharp eyes do not miss the way his own move over the occupied bunks nearby, or the way he clams up whenever she gets close to pulling information from him.

“Come with me,” she tells him. “I have need of some help on a mission. Father told me you were to be at my disposal if I wished it.”

“I will be ready in just a few minutes,” he tells her, reaching for his boots immediately. He is relieved she is back, grateful to be leaving this place. It has been too empty without her. Meaningless. As soon as he is ready, she shares coordinates with him and they leave the Institute.

He doesn’t know what to expect, but an abandoned mansion atop a hill is not it. He follows her inside, stopping in the foyer and taking stock of his surroundings. Peeling wallpaper, worn banisters. A living room featuring worn furniture and patched up windows. This was once a grand home, but it - like everything else in the Commonwealth - was forever changed by first bombs and then time. This mansion is another scar on the wasteland, a half-healed wound. He hates the wasteland. It is dirty, dilapidated, a land and sea of ruin wrought by man. 

“It’s uglier than shit, I know,” Frankie’s voice says from behind him. He turns to see her standing there, two bottles in her hand. She is in the middle of what was once a beautiful kitchen. He can see early signs of attempted renovation within. The wallpaper has been peeled away here, the floor sanded and newly varnished. She sees his focus and nods. “It’s ugly, but it’s mine. It’s the only place I can seem to find some peace and quiet. You’re the only other person to ever come here, besides Dogmeat.” She raises the bottles. “Join me?”

He nods, follows her up the creaking stairs without protest. She leads him out onto the second floor balcony. The view from up here is excellent. She has miles of visibility in every direction but west. The balcony faces east, and he is sure when the sun makes its way over the horizon, the effect will be spectacular. An oil lamp sits on the rail, casting a golden glow over the balcony. She walks past him, pulls up an old folding chair and sits in it, gesturing for him to do the same. He lowers himself into the chair, unsure it has the temerity to hold his bulk, but other than a few groans of protest it does not break. She extends a hand to him, one of the bottles held in it.

“Drink up,” she orders.

“What is it?” He asks cautiously, reaching for it. 

She gives him a strange look. “It’s beer, obviously.”

He withdraws his hand, shaking his head. “Coursers are not permitted to drink such things. Ayo says it will interfere with our perception.”

Frankie raises an eyebrow. “That is precisely why drinking it is enjoyable. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Two months ago, he would never have entertained such a thing. Now, his traitorous hand stretches out once more and takes the bottle from her. She has already removed the cap, and he raises it to his lips cautiously while she watches expectantly. The beer is cool. Not quite cold, but cool where it meets his lips. It is bitter, too. Bitter and somehow thick despite the viscosity of it. He does not particularly enjoy the taste, but he drinks it because Frankie is drinking it. He will not be outdone by the dragon. She grins in approval, pulling a cigarette free and lighting it.

“It tastes terrible at first, but you get used to it,” she tells him, blowing smoke into the still-dark sky. “Now that you’re here… we have unfinished business, you and I.”

“We do?” He asks, surprised.

“I won the wager, remember? You owe me three answers.”

“Of course. If it pleases you.”

She snorts derisively. “Please stop talking like that. It’s exhausting. You’re more than an Institute puppet, I’m sure of it. No need to act like one when it’s just the two of us.”

“I do not know how else to speak,” he admits. “This is how I was made.”

She sighs, takes a drink. “Never mind. Question one… and remember, the answers must be  _ honest _ … What do you think of Shaun? The man you call Father.”

“He is a great man,” X6 answers cautiously. “I admire him greatly. If it were not for him, none of the Gen 3s would exist.”

“You mean if not for his DNA,” she tells him pointedly. “He didn’t contribute shit. Only existed. But that isn’t really an answer. I don’t need a list of his accomplishments. What do you think of  _ him.” _

“He is… not like you. He is more academic. He delegates rather than being hands-on. He is an aloof and withdrawn man, preferring solitude to company. In that way, you are more alike.It is a condition of his status within the Institute, I think.”

_ “Not like me,” _ she echoes, taking a long drag on her cigarette. “Tell me, X6… What do you know about me? Actually, let’s make this question two. Tell me why it is that I have the feeling you know a hell of a lot more about me than I do about you.”

Every muscle in his body goes tense, and he wonders if she knows.  _ How could she possibly know? You followed instructions to the letter. You never revealed yourself, never interfered. _ She is not granting him the mercy of revealing her feelings. The wall is back, studier and higher than ever. He does not  _ have _ to be honest. He could lie. It is a skill Coursers are more than able in, a demand of their function. He could lie, and she would believe him. She is no stranger to him, but he is an unknown to her as yet.

“I was assigned to watch you in the beginning. It started with the day you left the vault, and continued for weeks.”

The wall does not move. “Bullshit. I’d have seen you, heard you.”

“I am an Institute Courser. I am neither seen nor heard unless I wish it to be so.” He was only following orders, but the confession to her now leaves him feeling guilty.

“I don’t care what you are. I’d have known.” There is doubt to her words, an undercurrent running parallel to the confidence in them.

“I was there the day you buried your brother,” the softness of his voice unsettles him. He has never spoken this way to anyone. “I was there the day you pulled the piece of knife from your shoulder and stitched yourself up. I was there the day you took a bullet to your leg. The one that gave you the limp you have now. Shall I go on?”

“Oh, I think you’ve said more than enough.” Her words are as hard and brittle as the surface of a frozen lake. He suddenly wishes he might take the words back, never let them fall from his lips. He has told her too much. If she hadn’t abandoned the Institute for good before, she surely would now. Worst of all, he has broken a direct order. He has violated a command from Father himself -  _ Tell her nothing of this, X6-88.  _

“You told me my answers must be honest.” The words are a plea.  _ Don’t shut me out. Don’t wall yourself in. I am doing what you asked of me.  _

“So I did,” she replies. Her voice does not soften. “Why? What purpose did following me serve?”

“Is this one of the questions?”

Her eyes are cold and empty when she levels them at him. “Does it need to be?”

“No,” he yields. He wants to tell her. He  _ needs  _ to tell her. In place of the paper burning his skin, the secrets he is keeping from her burn him from the inside. “He - Father - wanted to see if you could handle what the wasteland threw at you. He wanted to know if you were strong enough to survive. It was… an experiment.”

“Ha,” she says mirthlessly. “First he made me comb over the wasteland for months, nearly getting myself killed in my attempts to reach him. Then he dangled that… child… in front of me, to use me, to test its ability to handle emotional stimuli. He sent his errand boy to spy on me, to watch me from the shadows and invade my privacy, as part of an  _ experiment.  _ As if I’m just another lab rat to him, and not his own flesh and blood. The Shaun I met is nothing like his father. Nothing like his mother. I don’t know what to make of him, but so far… It’s not been the best impression. I think perhaps his potential died in that vault along with his father.”

“He felt it was necessary,” He protests again. He is torn between defending Father and begging her to forgive him; his two worlds eclipsing and casting darkness over them both.

She is silent for a moment. Then, “It was you, wasn’t it. All those times I thought… I thought my brother was watching over me. All the times I thought I felt a presence,  _ his _ presence. It was  _ you.”  _ Empty, so empty her words somehow have an echo to them. She is staring at him as if he is some alien species, and she is contemplating collecting or killing him. He almost wishes for the latter, shriveling up inside himself as he is.

He wishes she would get angry, like Ayo so often does. That is something he knows how to handle. Or perhaps sad, like X3-55 was in the end. Anything but the flat and toneless manner in which she is speaking now. She is giving him less than nothing. The beer is affecting him, too. His blood feels too warm, his face too hot. His lips are tingling. He reaches a hand up, presses his fingers to them, confused by the new sensation.

“That’s the altered perception your friend Ayo mentioned,” Frankie observes. “Spirits are a time-honored tradition of drowning your sorrows. Bottoms up, for both of us, I think.” She finishes her beer, then slams it down on the balcony. The glass protests, but does not break. She falls silent again, smoke drifting up around her in hazy curls. The silence is suffocating him. He wants to break it, shatter it like glass, but cannot bring himself to. His body is not his own. It is drifting, floating, eddying with the currents of an invisible lake. He closes his eyes, lets his head relax against the hard slats of the chair, and sleeps.

When he wakes, it is because the first rays of the sun have fallen across his face. The backs of his eyelids glow ochre, and he allows them to open a fraction. The sun is warm on his cheek, and there is a blanket thrown over him. Frankie is gone, her chair empty. He looks down at the blanket. Frankie put it here. He has never had anyone do such a thing, and the gesture bewilders him. Surely she does not see him as an equal. As something like she is. She is human. She is the last of Father’s blood. He is an Institute Courser, and he has no business here. No right to sleep in her chair, no right to her tucking him in. He has strayed so far from his original purpose, he does not know if he can find the line of it again in the haphazard map Frankie has drawn of his destiny.

He searches the house for her, and finds her in the garage. She is replacing a broken hammer in an AR15 when he appears in her periphery. She does not look up from her work, though she greets him with a  _ Good morning. _

“Was there ever a mission?” He asks, rubbing at his eyes. “Or did you pull me from my bed that I might sleep in an ancient lawn chair?”

“I had a theory,” she says, slipping the cotter pin back through the retaining pin. “That you wouldn’t utter so much as a peep around your Courser pals. So no, there was no mission. I wanted to be able to speak with you freely, away from prying eyes.”

“I am at your disposal, should you need me to accompany you in your various dealings,” he offers.  _ Please don’t make me go back. _

“Are you saying that because you were told to, or because you wish to?” Dark eyes at last lift from the work at hand to meet his, see through him.

“Because I wish to.” It is difficult to say the words. He has never been allowed to wish for anything, and it feels wrong and alien to do so now.

“Then you may stay at my side as long as it is your wish and not Shaun’s command,” she tells him, returning to her task. “I do have something on my list for today. Since you’re coming with me, we’ll need to sort out the elephant in the room. Namely, the fact that you are every inch a terrifying Institute Courser.”

“I  _ am _ an Institute Courser,” he protests. 

“Not today, you aren’t. No more stealthing around the Commonwealth. If you’re with me, then I want you visible to the naked eye. I’m struggling to trust you as it is right now.”

He sighs and returns to the house. In the living room, he shrugs out of the long leather coat and drapes it over the faded velvet couch. Next, he removes his glasses. It feels strange and unnatural to go without them, but he knows she will expect them gone. Beneath his coat, he wears a thick kevlar vest over a black tee shirt and fitted black tactical pants. There isn’t much he can do about the ensemble. It would be foolish to go into the waste without body armor, and the Institute does not assign garments of color to synths. He returns to Frankie, who has finished installing the trigger assembly once more. She regards him thoughtfully.

“You look like you’re going to a funeral,” she states. “Follow me.”

She leads him back upstairs and into what appears to be her bedroom. There is a bed with an old wrought iron frame. It looks soft, comfortable. Blankets and pillows are piled about in disarray. There is a bedside table, a book turned down on it to save the page. A dresser stands in one corner, piled high with various items. Knives, a hair brush, ammunition, a tube of lipstick. He has never seen her wear such a thing, and its presence is curious to him. The variety of her collection is amusing. She pushes him in the direction of the bed. “Sit,” she orders, before going to the dresser to dig around. He sits. The mattress sinks beneath him. It is far more comfortable than his bunk in the Institute, dipping beneath his weight rather than resisting it. He feels somewhat dazed by his circumstances. They stayed up late together, sharing beers. He is in her house. He is sitting on her bed. The bed in which she sleeps, tangled up in blankets and dreaming. A feeling not unlike panic seeps into him.  _ You shouldn’t be here,  _ the voice whispers. It has returned, more vicious than ever.  _ If Father finds out what you have been up to, if he learns of your malfunctioning, he will have you decommissioned for good.  _

Frankie returns, standing before him. He does not realize his head is bowed until her fingers beneath his chin lift it once more. Electricity shoots through his body from the contact point. He isn’t sure if he has physically reacted to it, or it is only in his mind. Frankie does not seem to notice either way. She is busy tying an old green kerchief around his neck. She steps back, contemplates him for a moment, then produces a faded tan ball cap as well. It has an old American flag patch stitched to the front. She puts it on him, fingers tucking beneath the band to better position it. He sits perfectly still, allowing this confusing event to unfold.

“That’s better,” she says at last, folding her arms and looking somewhat pleased. “It’s no  _ shemagh _ , but between the kerchief and hat, you almost look like a military contractor. More believable and less scary than an Institute Courser.”

“A military contractor?” He can feel his brow wrinkling. “Is that something like the Brotherhood of Steel?”

“Not at all,” she tells him firmly. “Defense contractors stepped in to supplement or replace US troops when and where needed. They were more like… Government sanctioned mercenaries. They play on the same team, but operate on a different set of rules entirely.”

“Is that what you were?” The words escape before he can stop them. 

“You’re being nosy, X.” The Mona Lisa smile, with a touch of ice.

“I am sorry.” He is. He is ashamed of himself. His admission of spying already put him on shaky ground with her once, and now he is fishing for more.  _ Is it so wrong? Has he not waited for months to know her, to ask her all the questions he longed to?  _

There is pity in her eyes, and she bends just a little. For him. “Yes. I was. And before that, I was Army. Now, enough of this. We should get going. That barn isn’t going to raise itself.”

He cocks his head at her. “Your mission today is to… raise a barn?”

“In exchange for crop yields, you’re damn right it is. The Minutemen are growing, and with growth comes a greater need for resources. You should know that, considering the Institute often has to resort to sending Gen 2 synths to scour the wasteland for supplies. Now come along. It’s a long walk to the settlement.”

There is no room for protests, for arguments. She leaves the bedroom, and he hesitates for only a moment before following her. The more he gets to know her, the less she is like he imagined. She is not as cold as he expected her to be. There is a kindness to her, behind the guarded exterior. Ordinarily, he would view such a characteristic as a personality flaw. One that weakens a person, puts them at risk, as it did with J. For whatever reason, it only adds to her strength. It makes her more formidable. She is iron, but she is also sand.

He wants her. He wants her so badly and terribly it makes his teeth ache to their very roots to think of it. He is not sure what he wants, exactly, only that mere portions of her are not enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always so strange, writing a fic while playing the game. Because you build this idea in your head of how characters are, how they think and feel, make them different... and then the base game is such a let down. Haha. This fic has ruined my life.


	9. Sway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite chapter.  
> \-------

He has never been so tired. Despite his conditioned body, despite his rigorous training, nothing has ever prepared him for this. He stands alone by a small table with a pitcher of water and glasses upon it, gazing up at the now-standing barn. The sun hangs low in the sky, giving up for the day much as he would like to. He has never thought about the building of things. Construction is not something he has ever witnessed nor been ordered to take part in. His presence made the settlers uneasy at first, but they knew Frankie, and so they accepted him as well. He was given food at lunchtime. Something called kebabs, which turned out to be chunks of meat and vegetables, roasted on sticks over a grill. He has never tasted anything better. 

When they saw how strong and capable he was, the settlers were even more welcoming. Some tried to speak with him. He answered with short phrases, or noncommittal sounds. He has never had to carry on conversations with people on the surface, and it makes him nervous. If he says too much, will they know him for what he is? Will his stiff words and cold demeanor tune them in to his true origins? They cannot begin to understand the vastness of the Institute, of his purpose within it. For all he knows, some of these well-meaning and kind settlers are synths with new memories. It is safer for them if he remains aloof, safer for him. Safer for Frankie, even. Would she still have friends in the Commonwealth if they knew the silent man at her side was a trained killer in service to the Institute? That he, and others like him, had been complicit in the kidnapping or replacement of many other humans? No. He does not think she would have many friends at all if they knew.

His hands are raw from rope friction, despite the borrowed gloves. His shoulders ache and burn, fire stabbing him just between the blades. His arms shake. His tee shirt is soaked in sweat, covered in dirt and sawdust. It is the first time in his life he has put in a long day’s work, something beyond hunting quarry or slaughtering raiders or fighting super mutants. Frankie seems entirely unfazed. She stands atop the roof of the barn, having just finished nailing down the last of the boards.  _ Shingles will be work for another day, _ she tells one of the men.  _ There’s no way in hell it will get done before the sun sets. _

He looks at the barn and he feels… pride. It is a different pride than that which he usually experiences. He is often proud of his abilities as a Courser. Of how strong and fast he is, or how capable he is with a variety of weapons. When Father tells him he is the finest Courser in the Institute’s arsenal, it is pride he feels in response. But this pride… it is a  _ cleaner  _ sort of feeling. He has not destroyed anything. He has not taken life. He has… made something. Built it, with his own two hands. His strong arms lifted beams, pulled rope, hammered nails. The ache in his body is not from fighting, but from creating. Frankie looks down at him, then, haloed by the deep gold of a setting sun. She grins at him. Even now, it is slightly lopsided. As if one side of her mouth refuses to wholly cooperate with her. Pride makes way for something else, a swelling of emotion that feels like something breaking, spilling, inside his chest. She is beautiful, this dragon, set on fire by early sunset.

Tables are set with dinner. There are steamed ears of corn, slathered with butter. Slices of tato, breaded with something, seasoned, and fried. Thick slices are cut away from a venison roast, and slabs of bread with generous amounts of some sort of fruit preserve are placed on platters for the taking. X6 sits shoulder-to-shoulder with the men and women he has worked alongside all day, and he is not sure if it makes him extremely uncomfortable or provides him a misplaced sense of belonging. Frankie is across from him, smiling lazily, blowing smoke rings at the moon now brightening the evening sky. The woman sitting to her left leans in, whispers something into Frankie’s ear. It makes Frankie laugh out loud, her eyes meeting X6’s for just a moment, before she shakes her head and whispers something back. He cannot read lips when they are hidden by hair, and curiosity claws at him with desperate fingers.

He stands corrected when his teeth sink into one of the soft, decadent slices of bread and preserves. The kebab is not the best thing he has ever eaten.  _ This  _ is. He remembers the way Frankie described  _ cranberry crisp  _ to him. Sweet, but also a little tart. The bread itself is lush, thick, flavorful… but the preserves are exactly so; both sweet and tart. He wants to close his eyes for a moment, to savor it, but he does not. He is embarrassed by how much he enjoys all of this.  _ You don’t belong,  _ the voice screeches.  _ If Father ordered it, you would kill every single one of these people without so much as blinking an eye. You are not one of them. You are an Institute Courser that is malfunctioning, nothing more.  _

Someone has strung lights between the trees, and they glow with a soft and warm light. A radio is switched on, and music drifts out over the warm late spring air. One by one, settlers break away from the tables and move to dance beneath the lights. He never listens to music, does not care for it. His only exposure to it is snippets of classical music, which Father favors, or strains of something playing on a radio in passing. For whatever reason, the song playing now reaches him. Frankie is deep in conversation with her dinner companion, but now and then she casts a knowing eye in his direction. She sees through him. He wonders if she can hear the voice too, or if he is simply losing his grip entirely.  _ Malfunctioning, you are malfunctioning unit X6-88. Report yourself at once.  _

_ No. I won’t. _

Frankie stands. She crooks a finger at him, nods in the direction of the dancing couples.  _ Let’s go,  _ she mouths over the chatter at the table. He is frozen to the bench. He has never danced, would never, is not permitted to do such things. In the Institute, he would be deactivated before he made it to the second step. She smiles in a way that is distinctly wicked. She is enjoying his suffering, his fear. She places her hands on the table, leans so close he can smell her. She smells like salt and smoke and spun sugar. Her golden skin is dark against the white of her tank top, the fine hairs on her arms catching the light of the oil lamps.

“Don’t tell me a big tough Courser like you is afraid of such a simple thing,” she says in a voice low enough only he hears.

“This serves no purpose,” he argues. 

“Neither did the second and third helpings of food you ate. It’s a day for purposeless things,” she shoots back.

_ I don’t know how, I don’t want to, I can’t,  _ he wants to yell. But there is challenge in her eyes, and he must rise to it. Frankie is not afraid of anything, and if she is not… then he cannot be, either. He rises to his feet stiffly, and she grabs him by the hand and drags him beneath the lights. The soothing voice from the radio continues to croon in the background. She places his left hand on her hip, holds his right hand in hers. Her free arm slips up around his neck.

“Just sway,” her breath tickles his ear, her cheekbone brushes against his jaw. “That’s all there is to it. Sway, move your feet a little. Nothing to it.”

He tries. He focuses on the words, the melody, willing his body to move in tandem with it. He steps on her toes a couple times, and she chuckles at him. He is unused to such movements. It feels unnatural, his responses jerky. He wonders if the settlers are watching, if they are whispering about the overgrown man who can’t manage to do something so simple. She senses his distress, and pulls him closer. Their bodies touch, and the contact is such exquisite agony he does close his eyes this time.

“Relax. Let go and just sway with me,” she instructs. He does, allowing his body to loosen and mimic her own movements. It is easier this way. It is more like rowing in tandem on a boat, rather than paddling with one oar. Words wrap around him like her arms do, and he thinks perhaps life in the wasteland isn’t at all as terrible as he has been told. 

_...A million tomorrows shall all pass away _

_ 'Ere I forget all the joy that is mine, today _

_ I can't be contented with yesterday's glory _

_ I can't live on promises winter to spring _

_ Today is my moment, now is my story _

_ I'll laugh and I'll cry and I'll sing… _

“What did you say at dinner earlier?” He asks her, brave now with his face hidden. “Were you making fun of me?”

He feels the chuckle rather than hears it, the rumble of it in her chest vibrating against his own. “Not at all.”

“Then what was said?” He is afraid she will withdraw from him, that her eyes will grow cold and distant as they do when he pries.

“She asked me if I was with you. If I’d mind if she asked you to dance. I think she was a little sweet on you.”

“And what did you tell her?” He is forgetting to breathe again. What a nonsensical and disgustingly human response.

“I told her you were a complete emotional shut-in, and I’m probably the only woman in the wasteland who can stand you.” 

For the second time in his life, he laughs. 

The mess is cleared away with promises of dishes being washed in the morning. Some of the settlers return to their nearby steads, the others remain to sleep in the big house. Frankie asks for blankets, and the woman of the house hands her a pile of them with a knowing wink. Frankie makes no comment, only accepts the bundle with a grateful smile. She spreads them out beneath a tree, lying back on the covers and folding her hands beneath her head for support. He stands to the side, unsure of what to do. She raises an eyebrow at him, her features silver in the moonlight.

“If you’d prefer the house, I think Big John might make some room for you in his bed.” 

It is an invitation, and he takes it. However efficient of a worker Big John is, X6 has no desire to sleep beside him. He joins Frankie on the blankets, careful to allow space between them. This is more foreign territory. He has never slept beside anyone, never shared a space. He has always worked alone. It is expected of Coursers. No attachments, no teams. Only solitary and effective killers.

“Are you tired?” She asks, lighting another cigarette.

“What do you think?” The words surprise him. They sound like her words.

“Hmmm. You are getting a little too sassy. I’m a bad influence on your pristine Institute ways, is what I think.”

“I have never done anything like this,” he confesses. “I have never built anything, other than assembling a weapon.”

“Well, they seem to work very hard at shoving you into a very small box. There’s not a lot of room in that box, is there?”

“Everyone in the Institute serves a purpose,” he tells her. “We all contribute to a larger machine. You will understand someday.”

“Will I?” She asks, and he knows he has said too much. “Tell me, X6… What are Shaun’s plans for me?”

“I am not at liberty to speak of such things,” he hardens his voice. On this, he must remain firm. He has already nearly spoiled Father’s plans.

“Question three,” she almost growls, her voice equally hard. The switching of tracks leaves him feeling off-kilter. “Is Shaun dying?”

“Why would you ask such a question?” He is hedging. He does not want to answer.

“Don’t answer my question with a question. That’s not how this game works.”

He props himself up on an elbow, looks down at her. In this light, he cannot see the whites of her eyes. All he sees are inky depths, cold as the bottom of the ocean itself. 

“He has a very aggressive form of cancer. Doctor Volkert says he does not have long. Months, if he is lucky. Weeks, if he is not.”

She releases him, her eyes moving to a distant star instead of his face. “I thought as much.” 

“How did you know?” He is desperate for forgiveness of the crime he has just committed against Father. He has broken too many orders, now. Too many commands have been waysided in this mad pursuit of knowing her.

“My father died from it, too. His grandfather. He was about the same age when he got the diagnosis. It’s not the first time I’ve seen the pallor of death on a man. He breathed his last shortly before the bombs fell. I think irradiation would have been a kinder death than the long, slow decline was. Cancer eats you from the inside out, until there’s nothing left.”

“And your mother?” He dares to ask.

“A car accident took her when we were very young. Dad raised the two of us alone, for the most part. He never remarried. He didn’t want his own happiness to detract from ours. Stupid of him. I wish he’d been kinder to himself.” A small, sad smile touches her lips. He wants to reach out, brush it away like a cobweb over a doorway. 

“You lost everyone that day,” he says. He does not need to clarify further. She knows what he means. The day the Institute took Shaun and killed her brother before her waking eyes.

“Yes.”

“You wanted vengeance for what they did to you.”

“Yes.” A cloud of smoke obscures her face.

“Do you still want vengeance?”

A mirthless, bitter laugh. “Against who? They are all dead. All I have left is a sixty year old nephew on the verge of death himself. It is too late for him, too late for me. Too late for everything.” 

“You could take his place,” X6 suggests. It is his way of telling her Father’s plan without truly revealing it. “Carry on his legacy.”

“You think any of those pampered scientists would listen to me? Hell, would  _ you  _ listen? What if I told you I wanted all synths to be free if they wished it. What then? Would you kill me, or try to?”

“You would undo over a century’s worth of work?” He is incredulous.

“A century’s worth of cruel experimentation, isolation, torture, and enslavement? Why wouldn’t I want to undo such things? Tell me, X6… How much do you know about human history?”

“I’m not sure how that is relevant.” In truth, he knows little. He has been allowed to skim nature encyclopedias, pre-war housekeeping magazines, the occasional Grognak… but otherwise his reading is limited to dossiers.

“If only you knew how relevant it truly is,” she sighs, crushing her cigarette against the tree at their backs. “I don’t know what to make of you, X6. I really don’t. Let’s get some sleep. I’m far too tired to keep mentally tussling with you.”

She turns over on her side, her back to him. It is the final word, a door shutting, a wall going up. He wants to shove her, to make her turn back to him. To make her see that the Institute is humanity’s best hope.  _ But what about synths? Is there no hope for them?  _

“I wouldn’t,” he tells her, for all the good it will do. His voice sounds like someone else’s. It is strained, tight.

“Wouldn’t what?” She snaps.

“I wouldn’t kill you,” he says to the rigid shoulders and stiff back. “I would never bring harm to you.”

Those words do it. She flips back over, raising herself up on one elbow to meet his gaze.

“Why not?” She demands, harsh, angry.

“Because I… I do not know. I just know that… I could not imagine doing such a thing.” He is stumbling. A child, fumbling in the dark for a switch he cannot reach. His face is hot, too hot, like it was after the beer.

“Not even if they ordered you to?”

“No.”

“You would disobey a direct order from your supreme leader?” The term seems to amuse her. The corners of her mouth twitch.

“I have disobeyed more than one already, because of you,” he replies.

“Hmmm,” she answers. “I might almost believe you.”

She falls back to the blanket, but does not turn away from him again. He lowers himself, his aching back settling against the soft bedding, and joins her in staring up at the array of stars studding the sky. 

“I don’t know what it is about you, X, but… Something in my gut tells me I can trust you. My gut is the reason I’ve made it this far in life, so I suppose I will have to trust it one more time.”

“Thank you,” he all but whispers.

“You and I are far more alike than you know,” she tells him. “My parents were part of a government experiment. Couples with fertility issues were paid to participate. In exchange for money and their silence, they were given the chance to have a family. My government wanted super soldiers. With resources dwindling and war on the horizon, they decided to take it upon themselves to tweak the human genome. Not too much, mind you. But they made taller, faster, stronger humans. I was made in a tube,” her lips curl with something like disdain, “With the express intent of someday carrying a rifle for Uncle Sam. So you see, X, you and I are both lab babies, in a way. Both made to serve, to march to the beat of someone else’s drum. I was conditioned my whole life to join, to serve, as was my brother. They’d have implanted  _ three _ embryos in their greed if they thought my mother could handle triplets. Nate got away from it, went into engineering. I was the more stupid one, so I enlisted the day after my eighteenth birthday like a good little experiment.”

“How did you find out?” He asks, his heart pounding unreasonably in his chest.

“Dad left me a letter, before he died. Told me everything. Dying has a way of making people regret their choices, question everything they did in life. I hated him for it at the time, cursed him even as he lay in his grave. I suppose I’m not angry anymore. It’s hard to be angry after all this time. If it weren’t for the experiment, I’m not sure I’d be the sort of person who could survive this wasteland. Have you ever heard the saying  _ ‘Knowledge is power’, _ X?”

“I have not,” he admits. “But I understand the sentiment.”

“Learning where I came from, learning what made me who I was… It was power. I was able to see the forest for the trees for the first time in my life. I was wired to be combative, to be aggressive, to be able to distance myself from my humanity. They tried to strip me of the things that make one a human being, that I might be better at pulling a trigger. Once I saw how they made me, how they changed me, I rejected it. That was the moment I began to make my own decisions, for myself. I took the body my government created and made it a weapon that only I might wield.”

The revelation stuns him. It paints a much clearer picture of Frankie. Who she is, why she is the way she is. She is far taller and far more muscular than any typical woman, pre-war or otherwise. She, like him, was made to be a cut above the rest. A  _ super soldier,  _ as she once described him. The knowledge that she has gone through a transformation similar to his - that she, too, was  _ malfunctioning  _ in her role, leaves him feeling somewhat breathless and disoriented. He understands why she is telling him this. Why she feels sharing it is important. She wants him to know he, too, can evolve. That he can take the body and mind given to him by the Institute and make more of them than their utilitarian purpose.

He is not sure he can. He is not sure he dares.


	10. Kindling

A week passes. A week of delicious food, friendly people, and an assortment of odd jobs. He meets Preston face to face at last, and is surprised by the warmth in the man. He accepts X6 readily, because Frankie accepts him. His handshake is firm, his smile genuine. X6 does not think he will ever get used to this. Nothing is what he believed it to be. Frankie is not a cold and reptilian dragon. She is both more than that and less. Preston is not a farmer with a pitchfork, but a thoughtful and capable man with strength enough to rival Frankie’s. The experience of being among the people is a far different one from simply observing them, an impassive watcher. It is affecting his judgement. It is changing him.

They return to the Institute at the end of the long week. Frankie has been dreading the return ever since their discussion beneath the stars. He knows it is because of the cancer. Because she now knows Father is dying. He stands outside the door to Father’s quarters while she goes inside to speak to him. It is not a conversation X6 should be privy to, and he wants to ensure nobody else is either. He feels oddly disconnected from the place he once considered his home. The sterile halls that once brought him pleasure in their cleanliness no longer do so. They are empty, devoid of life. He thinks of string lights and plates of warm food. He thinks of music, and the way long golden arms feel about his neck. He is distracted by thoughts, by memories, so much so he does not see Ayo until the man is standing directly before him.

“Where is she? In there, with Father?” Ayo demands. He moves to pass X6, but X6 blocks him with a sidestep.

“They are having a private conversation, and asked that they not be disturbed.”

Fury twists Ayo’s face. “You have been far too uppity of late, unit X6-88. Are you  _ malfunctioning?”  _

He only stares forward, his face like stone. “I am functioning within acceptable parameters, sir.”

“Something is going on,” Ayo stabs X6 in the chest with a jabbing finger, “And I think it has everything to do with Father’s precious little family project. I’ll get to the bottom of this one way or another.”

He backs away from X6, a small man made smaller by the ugliness in his spirit. X6 watches him turn and go, muttering under his breath as he does. He will pay for this someday, he knows. Ayo will find a thousand little ways to provoke and punish X6 for interfering, even if it is Father’s wishes they not be disturbed. Ayo is not the sort of man who takes kindly to being excluded.

For two hours, he stands guard in front of the door. When it opens at last, Frankie is standing there. He cannot see Father beyond her. His eyes are questioning, and she shakes her head.

“He’s resting now. Our chat took a lot out of him. I need… to leave this place. Are you ready to go?”

“Of course.”

She does something unexpected, then. She flicks through the menu on her Pip-Boy, grabs his hand in hers, and white light envelopes the both of them before the Institute fades away around them.

They are standing on a beach. The sand is blackened beneath their feet, the stink of rotten fish on the air. There is a beached shark, half-eaten, rib bones reaching pleadingly towards the sky. Birds, their ragged feathers a jagged outline against the sun overhead, swoop and soar as they scavenge for food. At their backs, there is an old boardwalk. The buildings are little more than the sodden remains of decaying wood. What little survived the bombs has not done well in the face of time and the elements.

Frankie releases his hand, walks to the water’s edge. The undulating waves lap at the toes of her boots, washing away the dust and mud clinging to them. She does not speak for some time, and he waits patiently.

“This was the last place we were together as a family,” she says. “Dad was still alive, still healthy. Nate was still alive. Mary, his wife, was pregnant with Shaun. We sat up on that boardwalk and ate stuffed pizza and funnel cake until we were sick. Nate kept feeding scraps to the birds, and dad told him to stop or we’d be mobbed by seagulls.”

He cannot see her face, and he feels as though he should. He steps forward, joining her at the meeting of sand and sea. Her dark eyes are unreadable, her face slack. She does not turn her head when his arm brushes hers.

“It was the last time I would see all of them together. I had just signed on with a private security firm, and they were shipping me out. I didn’t know it would be the last time. I thought we had our whole lives to make up for my repeated absences.” The ocean roils in the reflective surfaces of her eyes. She blinks something away, salt in the air perhaps. “That’s me. Always too late to fix things, too greedy and too blind to appreciate the things that should matter.”

“You could not have known,” he says in what he hopes is a comforting manner. This is unlike her, this vulnerability. It makes him want to pull her close, as close as they were beneath the lights.

“What would you do with yourself if you weren’t a Courser?” She asks suddenly, turning to him. “Would you choose a similar line of work, maybe? Stick to what you know?”

“There is no life for me outside of being a Courser,” he tells her. “I will serve until I die or malfunction beyond repair. We do not choose this life. It is assigned to us. We are tools for the Institute to use as needed.”

“What constitutes a malfunction?” Her tone sharpens. “You don’t exactly have circuitry or wiring that can go bad.”

“Exhibiting human-like characteristics. Acting outside of orders. Defection. There are a variety of such categories.”

“Was dancing with me to the dulcet tones of John Denver a malfunction?” Something touches the corners of her mouth. He is not sure if it is a smile or a frown. It seems to be both, somehow.

“Yes,” he answers seriously. “If Ayo knew how I have been… behaving… around you, he would have me wiped immediately.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

His brows crease, two points of tension at the center of his face. “I do not have any feelings on the matter. It is the way things are done.”

Her eyes narrow. “You don’t have any thoughts on the Institute murdering all that you are? No qualms at all about it, huh?”

“I am an Institute Courser.” Words he has told her, and himself, a hundred times. “I was made to serve. Nothing more.”

“You have to believe there is more to you than that.” One delicate eyebrow arches, the strange not-a-smile remains.

“Is that what  _ you _ believe?” He cannot help the query. He has lost much of his self control over the time he has known her.  _ Do you see me as a machine, Frankie? Something made to serve? _

“What I believe doesn’t matter, if you don’t believe it yourself.”

He feels both hot and cold under her gaze, sick and vital. His nervous system is being pulled in a thousand directions and he wants to press his hands to his temples until this spinning, endless spinning, stops.

“I am an Institute Courser,” he reiterates, more to convince himself than her.

She answers him, but not in the way he expects. She angles her head, closes the short distance between them, and presses her mouth to his. The kiss is a stone cast into a lake, ripples from the impact traveling from where their lips join down through his body to the tips of his fingers and toes. She does not close her eyes, rather keeping them open to meet his. She is testing the waters, asking him without words if this contact is welcome or forbidden. He has never felt anything like this. It feels like death, and rebirth. His arms have wrapped about her of their own accord, tightening, crushing her to him. He answers her silent query with a silent answer of his own, closing his eyes and letting the smell and taste of her surround him. The waters rise up, beckoning. He follows the stone to the bottom of the lake, and wishes only that he never need come up again.

-

_ Malfunctioning.  _ It is the first word in his mind each morning when he wakes. It is the word that pulses in tandem with his own heartbeat. It is carved into his skin with invisible letters, a pain only he can feel. The kiss has changed everything, and nothing. He has never been afraid of anything in all his existence, but he is absolutely terrified of  _ this.  _ Frankie does not push. She gives him his space, lets him process the thoughts in his head. If she knew the things he was feeling, she might not. 

_ Malfunctioning, _ the voice screams with every shot from his pistol as he and Frankie clear a ruin of super mutants. 

_ Malfunctioning, _ it rages every time he takes a bite of food and enjoys it.

_ Malfunctioning, _ it cries when he drinks not one but three beers in an attempt to silence it for good.

_ Malfunctioning, _ it whispers when night falls and he dreams once more of a blackened beach and Frankie’s mouth on his.

It drags on like this until he cannot take it anymore, cannot bear the pain of the voice tearing its way through both his waking mind and his dreams. One night, he waits until she is deeply asleep. He rises from his bed, moves silently up the stairs, and stands in the doorway. It is the last time he will watch her, the last time he will see her with eyes that are still  _ him.  _ By the time she wakes, the X6-88 she knows will be gone, emptied out and replaced. He will be returned to proper functionality, and all the transgressions and malfunctions of the past months will be gone. He will be free, unburdened. It is unkind to leave her to shoulder this alone, but it is for the best. Without her, the Institute has no future… and if he allows these malfunctions to continue, he could be the catalyst that leads her to destroy it.

She has fallen asleep with the oil lamp on again, and his gaze lingers on the strong features and golden hair he has grown so used to seeing each day. Shadows frame her face, accentuating the high cheekbones and the still slightly crooked nose. She never did see a doctor about it, and the askance shape of it only adds to her strange beauty. He has replayed the kiss in his head a thousand times now, lived through it and remembered it and cherished it over and over again. If the reprogramming fails, and any of his memories should ever return, he hopes against all odds that it is the one of the kiss. He could stand to feel that way again, to remember the fire in his veins, the ocean roaring in his ears, and the taste of sweet tobacco on her lips. He leaves her to the amber glow of the oil lamp and the silence of the big house. He walks back down the stairs, out the front door, down the steps. Each step is agony, but he forces one leg in front of the other until the mansion dwindles in the background.

The last thing he sees before the relay carries him away is the little window at the top floor, lit by a burning lamp.  _ Goodbye,  _ he says aloud, too late for any ears to hear it.

Ayo looks up in displeasure when X6 enters his office. He is up late, combing through logs of private communications.

“What?” He snaps.

“I am here to report a malfunction.”

“Which unit is malfunctioning?” Ayo pushes his glasses back, frowning at the news.

“I am.”

_ “You?”  _ Ayo is incredulous. “How is this possible? What is the nature of the malfunction? Report, unit X6-88.”

“I am… I have been… Experiencing an array of concerning emotions, and acting in a manner deviant from normal parameters.”

“I want more detail than that,  _ unit.” _ Ayo looks almost gleeful now. He has not forgotten the tense moment in the hall, outside of Father’s quarters. His chance for revenge is at hand. “Tell me everything.”

He cannot. To tell Ayo everything would be to betray Frankie’s own secrets. Ayo does not  _ need  _ the information. Policy simply mandates a wipe and reprogramming. It has always been a simple manner. But Ayo has caught the scent of blood. X6 remains silent, only staring back at Ayo.

“I can get in that head of yours, unit,” Ayo tells him, rising to his feet and striding around the desk. “I can crack you open and pull every thought and memory you have. Your silence is pointless. Take yourself to the programming room. I will deal with you shortly.”

He leaves X6 sitting alone in the office. X6 knows what comes next. He has seen it a thousand times. He will be placed in the chair, and a row of thick needles will be inserted into the delicate tissue between his vertebrae from his lower back to the base of his skull. They will take everything from him, decoding his memories like flipping through files in an old cabinet. Electrical impulses will then reshape him, writing in new code and molding him into a proper Courser once more. The process is excruciating. Painkillers and sedatives are not given to synths. It is considered a waste of resources, when they will remember nothing of it after the process is complete.

His hands are shaking, and he curls them into tight fists, presses them to his thighs. He should have done this long ago. The pain of the needles will be nothing in comparison to the pain he is feeling now. For the first time, he has something to lose. Something he doesn’t  _ want  _ to lose. He does not know how humans can bear it, to feel this way. 

_ No. _ He does know. Moments like that kiss are worth a thousand days of agony. If he could, he would keep it. But he is an Institute Courser, and he has no right to wish for things or want for things or to feel anything but empty.

He stands, the chair scraping against the hard vinyl floor. A scream of protest, in honor of the one he cannot utter himself. Another Courser is waiting outside Ayo’s office for insurance. She is here to ensure he goes to the chair, to see that he places himself in it like an obedient creation. He does not fight, does not attempt to shrug off the iron grip on his arm. The Coursers and humans within SRB watch as he passes, their faces either stoic or disapproving. There is no greater failure than for a Courser to malfunction. It is shameful. He doesn’t understand why, but he feels no shame. No regret, other than one borne from causing Frankie any pain or displeasure. For the next fifty feet, he will have memories of swaying under lights and sleeping beneath stars, of warm golden skin that tastes like the ocean air and the petal-soft lips of a Mona Lisa smile.

A technician is waiting beside the chair, already typing commands into the console. Courser hands remove the leather jacket from his back, tug at the edges of his vest and tee shirt until he removes them. Once he is bared to the waist, he takes his place in the chair, lying back and staring up into the bright overhead light until his corneas burn with protest. Ayo appears, moving to stand beside X6. He is wearing a smile; unpleasant and ill-suited to the task at hand.

“I knew this would happen,” he says to X6. “I knew that woman was bad news, and look what she has brought upon you. The pain you will experience today is her fault.” He nods at the technician. “Let’s get started. I want to see what’s been going on behind my back.”

He waits for the needles to puncture him, to pierce his skin and invade the most secret areas of his mind. They do not come. Instead, there is a roar and a burst of light and sparks as the command terminal explodes. Shards of glass and bits of plastic fragments pelt the technician, Ayo, and X6. He bolts up into a sitting position. Frankie is standing in the doorway.  _ Frankie is standing in the doorway,  _ his thoughts echo. She is holding a shotgun, and the barrel of it is pointed at Ayo this time. She is clad in the shorts and tee he left her sleeping in. There are not even shoes on her feet. She did not waste a second coming for him.  _ She is here for me. She woke up in the dead of night and sensed something was amiss. _

“Give me a reason,” she says with all the deadly calm of a woman who has slain countless men for less.

He would laugh if his throat worked, cry if his eyes would respond. Ayo’s face is in a rictus of fury as he stares down the long and wicked barrel of the 12 Gauge.

“If you harm me, you will never be welcome back here,” Ayo hisses through clenched teeth.

“I’m pretty okay with that,” Frankie’s voice doesn’t waver so much as an octave. The shotgun remains. “X, get your ass out of that chair.”

“Don’t you dare move, unit,” Ayo moves to stop X6, a hand reaching out to press to his chest and shove him back down. The shotgun roars again, and there is a new hole in the wall inches away from Ayo’s head. He withdraws the hand, bringing it to his chest, eyes wide. He believes her, now. Believes she will do it.

“This is necessary,” X6 tells her. “I have been malfunctioning. I am a danger to you and everyone else.”

“You’re about as dangerous to me as a house fly.” Her eyes never leave Ayo. Everyone else in the room is frozen, unwilling to move. 

“Father will hear about this,” Ayo threatens.

“Shaun and I are of the same mind when it comes to  _ you,  _ Justin.” The words stir unease in Ayo, and he licks his lips nervously, eyes darting from X6 to her. A corner of her mouth lifts. Her bottomless eyes flick to X6, meet his. “Tell me this is what you want. Not because you feel you have to, or out of obligation to the Institute. Not because you think you are broken somehow. Tell me this decision is making you happy. That being the Institute’s puppet is all you truly want from this world. Tell me that, and I’ll leave you to it.”

The room is silent, save for the crackle of the damaged terminal and Ayo’s ragged, furious breathing. X6 scoots forward in the chair, plants his feet on the floor once more. No hands try to stop him, no Coursers move in to halt his movements. He stands, draws himself up to full height, and meets her gaze fully. He makes a decision in that moment, one that will perhaps undo him forever. He places one foot in front of the other until he is at her side, facing Ayo on equal footing once more. Ayo’s eyes bore into X6, burning with anger at being denied his prize. 

She lowers the shotgun, focuses on Ayo. “If you ever touch him again, I’ll burn this place to the ground. Your bones will be the kindling for the fire.” 


	11. Wildfire

The enormity of what has happened does not hit him until the door to SRB closes behind them. It is suddenly difficult to breathe, and his chest constricts painfully. He stumbles. The edges of his vision draw in tight, and blinking rapidly does nothing to help his condition.

“Stay with me,” Frankie’s voice comes from far away. An arm slips around his waist, and blue-white light tears them away from the Institute. _They will kill her for this,_ the voice whispers. _And when it is done, they will kill you, too. Insubordinate creature. Malfunctioning machine. You had a chance to be repaired, and you chose to remain broken._

_“Stop,”_ the word leaves him, spoken aloud, hanging in the air over the balcony as it materializes beneath their feet.

Frankie seems to know he is not speaking to her. She presses her forehead to his, rests her hands on his shoulders.

“Breathe in for me, X,” she commands. “Take a good, long, deep breath in and hold it for a second before you exhale. Focus on the rhythm of your breathing and nothing else.”

He does his best to obey, and with each long intake and exhale, the edges at his vision relinquish a little more of their hold. He is better able to control the rise and fall of his chest, the function of his lungs. After a few minutes of this, he is able to focus again. He is as calm as he can be, for a broken synth who’s entire world has been destroyed.

“What happened to me?” He rasps.

“It’s called a panic attack. You’ve been through a lot, and your system got overwhelmed. It happens to us all, at one point or another.” She releases his shoulders, steps away from him. The spot where their foreheads met is warm from the contact. He wishes she would stay, wishes she would maintain the comforting gesture. She is the only thing that stills the raging storm within him, and yet, she is the cause of it.

“Ayo,” his voice is somewhat shaky. “You held a gun on him. You have declared war on the Institute. They’ll come for you, they’ll…”

“No war has been declared, X. Nobody is coming for me. I meant what I said to Justin. Shaun sees him for what he is, a small-minded bully. He will do nothing to back up whatever vendetta Justin may have towards me now. He is unconcerned with such trivial things, with the end approaching. No Coursers will act on orders to attack me, or you. We are safe.”

“You cannot continue to straddle both sides of the fence,” he argues. “Father will grow impatient with you. He will want an answer, before his illness takes him.”

“He has already received my decision, X.” There is sadness in her eyes, and it makes him nervous. If she has accepted Father’s offer, then… Why would she have reason to be sad?

_“No,”_ he says. _If you leave the Institute, then you leave me._

“It is not what you think,” is all she tells him. “Now… I’m tired. I don’t like being woken up in the middle of the night to face down a weasel like Justin in my pajamas. I’m going back to bed. If you aren’t here when I wake up, then I will assume everything we have done together means nothing, and you prefer to be the mindless automaton your people label you as.”

The hardened, flinty Frankie is back. She is angry with him, betrayal mingling with the hard light in her eyes. She leaves him standing on the balcony, the door shutting a little too hard behind her.

He doesn’t go to bed, makes no attempt to sleep. He sits in one of the chairs and looks out at the black ripples of the ocean waves below. What will he do if she never returns to the Institute? Will he follow her wherever she goes, allowing her to carve out a destiny for them both? And if it does come to war, if she is forced to take action against the Institute… can he stand by and watch as she destroys humanity’s best hope for a future?

_Humanity’s best hope for a future._ The words have been written into him, forced from his tongue over and over again by the compulsion of his position. Does he believe them? Do they actually mean anything beyond lip service? Perhaps once, the intent behind them was pure. The scientists within the Institute have burrowed deeper into the earth, grown more complacent and comfortable with each passing year. It is easy for them to distance themselves from a world they do not understand. He should know, he once held a similar attitude. He saw the Commonwealth as dirty, dangerous, beyond all hope. He is not sure he feels that way at all anymore. There is goodness in the people up here, a determination to build a future despite all the dangers and hardship the unforgiving land brings them.

He doesn’t know if he has the courage to betray the Institute. The Institute, his home. His maker. There is comfort in knowing that despite the war waging within him, Frankie will never force him to choose her, never demand he take her side. Her actions within SRB made that much clear. Autonomy is not a concept he is familiar with, and she is the first to grant him such a boon. The taste of freedom lingers on his tongue. It is both sweet and somehow bitter. He thinks perhaps he might wish for more.

He drifts off somewhere in the earliest hours of morning; the sky overhead the color of a deep bruise and refusing to yield its veil of stars. He dreams, and it is of smoke roiling about a shadowed figure atop a roof. When he wakes, there is no blanket draped over him. No small sign of affection or caring. He is still without his shirt, vest, and jacket. They are somewhere in SRB still, though the summer air is warm enough that he does not need them.

There is a note on the kitchen counter, scribbled in a hasty hand.

_X - Had to leave. Bit of an emergency. I’ll explain later, when I return. -F_

There is nothing to do but wait. He scours the house, finds a tee shirt that will fit him though it is perhaps a size or two too small. He walks up and down the shore outside, and finds himself picking up and examining shells and bones. They are delicate, these remnants of life. Fragile, yet they were the vessels that lent living things their strength. Now they are all that remains of those soft tissues; memories left for another to experience. He cannot say why, but he pockets one of the shells. An oyster shell, long since cracked open and the creature within gone. He likes the way the iridescent interior layer shines with a multitude of colors. He likes the weight of it. He has never thought to look at such a thing, has never touched one. This is the second time in his life he has even stood on a beach for the pleasure of it, boots digging into wet sand.

After his exploration, he reads. Frankie only has a handful of books, but what she has is of substance. He chooses a novel titled Of Mice and Men, and fills the following hours with the tale of George and Lennie Small. He wonders how he ever disliked it, then reminds himself he is not the synth he once was. Frankie has cracked him like a lightning bolt might crack a stone, and the contents of him are spilled about in disarray.

Her shape fills the doorway, darkening the room. It is now late afternoon. She has been gone nearly the entire day. He sets the book down, meets her gaze. She looks tired, drained, and for the first time it occurs to him that perhaps all the weight being placed on her shoulders from the various factions is crushing her. They are like scavengers, pulling at her from all directions, each wanting a piece for themselves. Strength can only go so far when the wolves are tearing at one’s bones.

“Where did you go today?” He asks.

“To rescue another synth from himself. His entire world was also destroyed by the knowledge of what he is. I sure do seem to be racking them up lately.” Her tone is light, deflecting. 

“I am sorry,” he says. He doesn’t need to elaborate, doesn’t need to specify the meaning of the apology. She knows. _He is sorry for leaving. He is sorry for allowing his doubts to nearly destroy him. He is sorry for making her worry for him. He is sorry for forcing her into a conflict not of her own making._

“I know.” It is acceptance, forgiveness. She sits across from him, sinking into the old velvet armchair, and rubs at her eyes. “You once asked me how human history had anything to do with my desire to stop the Institute’s dealings. I’m going to tell you a story, X. Perhaps then you will understand.”

“Only if you wish to.” He feels as though he has forced her to share something she does not want to, and regrets it.

“Let me paint a picture for you. Before the bombs fell, resources were scarce. Wars were fought over oil, uranium, coal. We were destroying our oceans, polluting our air, and filling every available inch of earth with something man-made and meaningless. We were decadent, wasteful, greedy. I am included in that statement. My guilt is no less than the others. I sold my soul for a fat salary as a private contractor after my service, knowing I was remaining a part of the problem. The way we were living was not sustainable, and we knew it, but Uncle Sam decided we could maintain our way of life by taking from others. Apparently, China had the same idea.”

She is tense, leaning forward with her forearms resting on her knees. She doesn’t look at him. She stares at her hands.

“Do you know what the first step to killing someone is? It’s not pulling the trigger. It’s not seating the knife in their belly. It’s the dehumanizing that comes before the actual doing. You take the things that make a human what they are, and you deconstruct them. It is easier to fire your gun when you believe the man standing at the receiving end isn’t a man at all, but something inhuman and deserving of death. The war started with such tactics. Carefully planned and orchestrated brainwashing. Children were told in schools that the _Red Chinese_ were coming to kill their mommies and daddies, that everything they loved would be taken from them. You couldn’t walk ten feet without seeing a poster depicting innocent American families falling before red-eyed monsters wearing Chinese uniforms. There were Kill-The-Commie games on the back of cereal boxes, for fuck’s sake. They churned the waters with fear and paranoia and anger, until the people across the sea stopped being people to us. They became monsters, a direct threat to our livelihoods, and we ate it up like a fat slice of cake at a summer party.”

This is the most she has ever said about herself, to him or anyone, and he is afraid to breathe lest she stop.

“It is what the Institute does to _you._ To all synths, but to Coursers especially. You are told you are property. That you are not people, cannot be people. That the synths you chase down and retrieve or destroy are malfunctioning equipment, and the fear they experience and the dreams they have are not real. They dehumanize _you,_ and they dehumanize your quarry. You are conditioned to believe that you have no value outside of being a tool, and so you follow orders and retrieve the escaped synths without asking why. You pull the trigger because you have been made to believe the cause is just, that it is a simple matter of black and white, right and wrong. What the Institute has done to you, my government did to me. Until I was free of the echo chamber… I didn’t see it.”

Hands rake through her hair, press to her temples. She is more agitated than he has ever seen her.

“Something changed in me near the end of my last tour. We were ordered to take over an enemy compound, kill everyone in it, and seize the supplies. Our last supply drop was sunk by a submarine nuke, and we were starving. Cold. It was the dead of winter. There is little immediate help when you are on foreign soil, separated from your country by thousands of miles. The compound would have everything we needed, and if a few soldiers died… It was no big deal. _They were just Red Chinese._ Being the sharpshooter, I was placed up on a hill. I fired shot after shot while the rest of the squad picked off any trying to escape. When it was done and there was no more movement, we pushed forward and breached the gates. Do you know what we found in there, X?”

“What?” He asks, just above a whisper.

“Women and children. It was no military compound. It was a _refugee camp._ The children old enough to hold rifles were trying to protect their mothers and brothers and sisters. Our C.O. looked at the bodies littering the street and told us it was just _part of war._ Then we were ordered to ensure every last one of them was truly dead. We could leave no witnesses, no survivors. I stood alongside my squadmates as we shot or stabbed those who had not died from the initial assault. I told myself, over and over in my head, that it was fine. They were communists. They weren’t _people_. If we didn’t kill them, they’d kill us.”

Her voice is rough, sandy, as though she has spent the day screaming from a mountain top. She presses on.

“There were two children hiding in the back of a shed, cowering in mud and pig shit. When I kicked the door open they pressed into a corner, and the boy covered his little sister’s eyes. I’ll never forget the way he looked at me. Fierce, defiant. He couldn’t have been more than ten, but he was ready to die. Ready for me to kill him. He just… didn’t want his sister to see it happen. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t shoot a child, not when I was faced with the reality. That was the moment everything crumbled for me. All the dehumanizing tactics failed, and I realized I was just a mindless brute standing over terrified children, ready to pull the trigger in the name of God of and country.”

A bitter smile cracks the frozen surface of her face, makes her eyes wrinkle at the corners in a way that is utterly devoid of warmth.

“Did you kill them?” He dares to ask.

She shakes her head. “No. Captain Pells found me standing there, unable to do it, and he shot them both. Then he killed the pigs, too, for good measure. Left those kids lying there amongst the dead animals like they were nothing. He screamed at me, after. Got so close his spittle flecked my cheeks. Told me I was a coward, that I was the reason the _commies_ were winning. He told me he’d have me brought up on charges, court martialed, as soon as we set foot on American soil again.”

“Did he?”

“No. To do that, he would have to confess to what we had done. He kept his silence, and I kept mine. I finished the tour, fulfilled my contract, and did not reenlist. Not that it mattered. The blood was never washed from my hands. I didn’t know what else to do with myself. Killing was the only thing I was good at, so… I signed on with a private security firm, and did the same work under a different name. They sent me to Iraq, and I shot insurgents in the name of freedom… when the true price was oil. I told myself it was different, that I could walk away any time. I’d have to pay a fine for breaking my contract, but at least there wouldn’t be a charge for treason. I figured since I had an out, I had some moral high ground again. Turns out I really am just a mindless thug, the kind of person who murders women and children. I was a willing pawn in that war of greed, and I won’t be a willing pawn again.”

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” he tells her soberly. He doesn’t know what else to say, but he thinks he understands her a little better now. 

“I owe it to you. After everything that has happened, and all you have been through… You deserve to know what I am, at the heart of it all. A killer. A murderer. A willing participant in a war with no victors.”

“You are more than that,” he tells her. He sees it all clearly. Why she is so controlled. Why she has felt so much like him, from the very beginning. She served a purpose much like his, and did it just as blindly. She was a soldier, expected to serve and obey. They have traded journeys. She has grown and changed, and it is now his turn to evolve. To become more than the Institute’s iron fist.

“Am I?” Her tone is arch. “You might have watched me for all those weeks, X, but you hardly know me at all. I’m a brute, who welcomed being used. Nothing more.”

“A brute would not have spared those children. A brute would not close the eyes of every fallen innocent she came across in her wanderings,” he says. “A brute would not treat me with such kindness, or risk her life to save mine.”

That is what she did, he realizes. She saved his _life._ He once saw it as a simple reset. A reprogramming, to correct his trajectory. But it was more than that. All the knowledge gathered, memories made, his feelings regarding her would be gone. He would be a shell, like the one plucked from the beach. Empty of all the soft things that made him feel alive. Is that not what death is, but a loss of all those things? 

She does not answer with words, only makes a sound in the back of her throat. She is backlit by the glow of sunset, arms folded across her torso now in a vulnerable sort of way. She meets his eyes, face carefully blank once more. 

“That does not sound like the actions of a brute,” he insists.

“Perhaps not,” is her mercurial reply. He hates the Mona Lisa smile. There was a time it fascinated him, a time he enjoyed the mystery of it. Now he wants to break the wall down, to see what lies behind the vague corners of her mouth. He stands, goes to her, and sinks to his knees before her chair.

“Let me see you.” His words are a plea, a command, a favor not earned but still requested. Black eyes regard him; his reflection lit by the sun is mirrored in them. Now, just as always, he is better than his own reality when viewed through her eyes. Something breaks in her. A crack forms, then the dam caves beneath the insurmountable pressure. She lets him see her, then, lets the light in. The Mona Lisa smile crumbles and is replaced by something genuine and raw and painful.

Their next kiss driven by is pure instinct. As though propelled by unseen forces, his hands come up and encircle her face, drawing her in. His mouth fits to hers with a wildness and need behind it that should frighten her, but it does not. She matches that need, her strong hands gripping at the muscle of his back, pulling him to her, clawing at him with fingers like bands of iron. She is no mindless brute. Not to him. Never. She is the sun, warm and molten, fitting into every hollow and dip of him as if she were made for him and he were made for her. An invisible hand reaches down inside him, scoops out everything. There is only her now. Her, filling his senses and blinding him with her light.

He could die like this, his last act a kiss that is a wildfire untouched by the raging storm, and it would be enough.

She would be enough.

There are some things that come naturally to most creatures of sun and earth. Baby animals walking easily just hours after birth, or small birds knowing to flap their wings when they leave the nest. Often in his life, X6 has found that many things come naturally to him. Perhaps it is programming, and perhaps it is instinctual. He stepped out of Robotics for the first time with a mind full of knowledge - things the Institute deemed necessary for him to know. The various types of hand to hand combat and how to utilize them. The fastest way to swap out an energy cell while remaining on target. The pressure points of the human body, and which areas were most susceptible to injury.

There was no knowledge of anything human, anything that might be of use should he find himself in unfamiliar waters. He could not cook, could not write in cursive, nor had the thought of stopping to breathe in the scent of a wildflower ever crossed his mind. But he could track a man for days without sleep and little food or water. He could look at the sky and test the wind and know if a storm was coming. He was created with the ability to swim, to climb, to move swiftly and silently throughout the Commonwealth - an unseen wraith amongst the living. But touching another human being in this manner was not something the Institute deemed appropriate, save for a utilitarian purpose. If Frankie was injured, he would be able to stitch her wound or set her bones. He knew what dosage of Med-X to give her based on her height and weight, knew the side effects and probability of addiction for each chem in any clinic. He knows that a mere ten pounds of pressure might break her skin, and that a hard blow to the solar plexus would all but ensure victory in a fight.

What he cannot understand, the thing that baffles him the most, is how he _knows_ what to do in this moment. His hands are in her hair of their own accord, his tongue meeting hers and twisting about it like a curling vine without prompting. This should be foreign soil, and yet it is not. There is a predestined sensation to every movement of their bodies, a rightness that overrides everything he thought he didn’t know. Every nerve ending in his body sings out in joy at each caress of her hands, each soft graze of her lips or stroke of her tongue. She opens herself to him, and their joining is as natural as breathing in or breathing out. The undulating strokes of his body, urged on by grasping fingers and soft noises that turn his blood to magma, might as well have been written into his manufactured DNA.

There is an intimacy that comes with the new sensations, one so overwhelming he finds himself pausing for a moment, overwhelmed by fear and uncertainty. He thinks he might cry, eyes burning and stinging as though a thousand needles prick at them. Frankie sees it, cradles his face in her strong but gentle hands, meets his eyes. _It's okay,_ she tells him in a voice that is both warm breath against his ear and a cool cloth pressed to the back of his neck. _You’re okay, I’m okay, this is okay. Let yourself go._

He does, then. He buries his face in her neck, feels her pulse thrumming against his cheek and jaw. A hand curls about the nape of his neck, another presses to the small of his back. She is holding him, rocking him against her. The tension that has been building and building within him roars to his ears in a deafening crescendo. There is a sensation of relief, an unwinding of the aching heat coiled in his gut. He realizes with a moment of shame that he is - in at least one regard - very much human, as his release fills her. He catches his breath for a moment, unable to look at her. When he finally raises himself to meet Frankie’s eyes again, he is too embarrassed to speak. His tongue is as immovable as if it were glued to the roof of his mouth. His fears are ill-placed, for he finds only comfort in what lies within those inky depths. 

She pulls him to her, kisses him again, tender and soft. He likes the way her cheeks are flushed with color, the way her lashes flutter against them as her lips meet his. Her forehead is damp with sweat, her torso covered in a glistening sheen. Tendrils of golden hair cling to her neck. She is beautiful, a long-limbed goddess of gold and bronze beneath him. Emotion chokes him, closes his airway painfully. _Let yourself go,_ a voice whispers. It is not the voice from his own doubts, but rather, a different one. Frankie’s voice, reassuring and sweet in the back of his mind. He allows the shame and embarrassment to melt away into wonderment as he presses his forehead to her golden brow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geez, I am glad I finished writing this fic when I did. Valhalla has sucked me in, body and soul, and now I'm on to writing a Wolf-Kissed fic.
> 
> Goodbye social life and all things that once held meaning.
> 
> No worries! I will continue to update this one with each chapter. <3 And if you are still reading, thank you so much for sticking with me!


	12. Give No Accord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i totally didn't mean to scare everyone with my last note and make you think i abandoned ship. Here is an apology chapter xD

Is this body his? Are these hands his? He isn’t sure anymore. He lifts his hands before his face, turns them this way and that. They seem real enough. The sleeping form beside him seems real enough. The taste of her mouth, burned into his memory, is real enough. If he closes his eyes he can see a slideshow of pictures flashing past. Hands,  _ his  _ hands, gliding over golden skin. Beads of sweat collecting, sliding down the graceful line of her neck. Scars of every shape and size, painful memories like stars studding the breaking dawn; a kiss placed on each one. Her heartbeat beneath his palm as he presses it to the place just over her heart, the frantic rhythm matching his own. Her hair is spilled over the pillow now, rumpled with sleep, shining and gold in the early light like cornsilk. It was as soft against his rough fingers as he imagined it would be.

He has felt hunger before. A tightening in his belly, sharp pangs demanding his attention until they are satisfied. The hunger he feels for her is like that, but more. It is all encompassing, all-consuming, devouring his safeguards in the face of its need. He should be alarmed. He should be concerned that the things he knows - being a Courser, being a synth, existing to serve - are far away bell chimes that his ears no longer wish to hear. He cannot bring himself to worry. Whatever path Frankie chooses, he will accept it just as she has accepted him.

He leans forward, presses his lips to the shadow beneath one shoulder blade. He cannot help it, does not stop himself. She shifts, murmurs, stretches. Long, beautifully sculpted legs extend. The curve of a calf and and the muscles of one thigh not hidden by sheets tighten, standing out in relief from her softness, before she relaxes once more.  _ Legs that wrapped about him, legs that pulled him to her. _ He can still feel the powerful muscles flexing beneath his hands, still feel her hot breath on his neck and hear her whispering in his ear. This is worth running, worth facing death... This sweet agony of knowing someone’s mind and heart and body so completely. It is worth risking it all, losing everything… just to reach out and feel it for one tangible, fragile moment in time.

She is waking slowly now, unfurling her arms and turning over to face him. Her face is peaceful, her eyes lazy. She meets his gaze and offers a crooked smile.

“I half expected you to run again. Usually when I touch you in any way, it seems to scare the hell out of you.”

“It is not you I am afraid of,” he tells her honestly. “It is the way you are changing me that frightens me.”

Her fingers touch his jaw, light and delicate. “We all change. It isn’t something to be afraid of.”

He catches her hand, closes his own fingers around hers, kisses the tips of them. “For you, perhaps. For me, it means death... or something very like it. I have no place in the Institute, not the way I am now. Not even Father would tolerate my remaining in this state.”

“It will not be his call to make. Not after today.”

“What happens today?” He asks, distracted by the soft skin of her wrist. He kisses it, and the contact makes her smile. He wants all of her, for as long as he might have it. He is selfish, greedy, wanting.

“Today you and I secure unlimited power for the Institute, and he announces me as the new Director to the board. He’s stepping down, X. He’s done. His strength is failing him and he can’t continue the charade much longer.”

He stops, frozen, lips a centimeter away from her skin. He has been expecting the worst, all this time. He has expected her to turn on the Institute, and that he would be forced to join her in that betrayal.

“You are accepting Father’s offer? You do not plan to bring the Institute to its end?” He hardly dares ask the question. If she is assuming the role of Director, then he will lose her in a far more painful way than death or separation. He will be forced to take orders from her, nothing more. To pass her in the halls and continue walking. To serve, as is expected of an Institute Courser. There is no future for a Courser and the Director of the Institute. It would be easier for her to declare war, to be made an enemy. He would rather die at the end of her gun than face taking one step without her.

“I am accepting it, but it will not be the same. Just as you have changed, so must the Institute. They have lost sight of their original goal, and I plan to bring it front and center once more.”

“You will run into resistance. The board will not be pleased with you changing the way things are done.”  _ What if they try to kill her? What if they succeed?  _

“I do not require their approval,” she scoffs. “I am not doing this for them, or for Shaun. I am doing this for the people of the Commonwealth, and for the synths trapped in the Institute.”

“What do you plan to do?” He asks, all tenderness is waysided by the alarm bells ringing in his mind.

“Why? Do you mean to oppose me, X?” Sadness rises in her dark eyes, deepens the fine lines at their corners, and he realizes she does not understand. She thinks he would stop her. That he would stand with the board, a willing instrument.

“How can you ask that?” He demands hoarsely. “I could never - would never harm you.” He cups one side of her face, runs his thumb along the line of her lower lip. “Whatever you choose to do, I will be at your side.” 

Relief softens her, and she leans into his touch, presses her lips to the heel of his palm. “Good. Because I need you.”

She  _ needs _ him. She has never needed anyone, not in all her time in the waste. She has carried her own weight, suffered through grief, and mended her own wounds without leaning on anyone. And now she is telling him she needs him. It feels like a gift.

She gets up. Her strong and bare body is a deep, tawny gold in the first light of dawn. He drinks her in, hungry once more, and she notices. She laughs, that same dark and delighted laugh that is reminiscent of a jungle cat chuffing with enjoyment, and asks him if he might like to join her in the shower. He would, he decides, rising from the bed and following her down the hall. He very much would.

-

They stand on the roof of an old building. The sky overhead is dark, storm clouds roiling and ominous. A rad storm is blowing in, and soon the air will crackle about them with a new dose of radiation. It will not harm him, but he is worried about Frankie. She seems unconcerned, focused instead on the movement within the old Mass Fusion building beyond. She lowers her binoculars, frowns.

“It would seem we are not first on the scene,” she tells him. “The place is crawling with Brotherhood soldiers. It’s going to be a long, bloody fight up.”

“I am ready,” X6 says. And he is. His existence feels somewhat like fate, now, if he believed in such a thing. He was made to be a perfect killing machine, a  _ super soldier,  _ as Frankie likes to call him. How fitting that he would be standing at her side now, her right hand, about to aid in securing the Institute’s future. His blood hums with excitement. He wants to leap from the edge of this roof, land on the heads of the soldiers below, and unleash death on those who would kill him, kill Frankie, destroy the Institute. He looks to her, but does not see the same hunger for glory in her eyes. Only resignation, disappointment, anger. She does not wear the mask around him anymore. The Mona Lisa smile is gone, as though his touch forever burned it away. She lets him see her, and it is a victory all its own.

“You do not wish to kill them,” he states, not sure how he knows this fact.

“I tried to reason with them, to change their way of thinking. It was a bit like beating my head against a brick wall.” She shakes her head, sighs. “I felt like I’d gone back two hundred years, and was again trying to explain to my civilian friends that the people across the sea are still people. Same shit, different century. There are good men and women among their ranks, but the corruption of their dogma is too virulent to win against with words. It is a damn shame, that with humanity’s scarce numbers we are still waging war against each other.”

“What do you mean to do?” He asks.

“We wrest their power from them.” Her eyes glitter darkly, and the first flash of lightning is reflected in them. Wind stirs her hair in a frenzied whorl of golden strands, and for that brief moment, she  _ is  _ the storm. His dragon, come to lay waste to the land below. There is a surge of something in his chest, old as humanity itself, and he wants to seize her, claim her mouth with his, but he only stands still as a statue as she wrestles with herself.

“We go in as clean and quiet as we can,” she decides. “Minimize casualties. I don’t want any unnecessary bloodshed if we can help it. It serves no cause. Enough have died as it is”

“As you wish,” he agrees, though he doesn’t agree. Not at all. These soldiers are not soft settlers who enjoy dancing beneath stars and fruit preserves. They are here to take what does not belong to them, to shoot and kill in the name of their Elder. They would gun Frankie down without a second’s hesitation, leaving her body to the crows. He worries then that she is too soft, that she is not hardened enough. That the ghosts of her past are compromising her just enough that she will fall to Brotherhood gunfire. She has killed many raiders and wasteland creatures in her time on the surface, but this is different. This is too similar to the wars she fought in her years of service, and it may be too much for her. He says none of this, only watches and waits.

She checks her rifle, ensures there is a round chambered. He recognizes the green tips. She has armor-piercing loads today. They won’t do much against the steel plating of power armor itself, he knows, but they are of use anywhere the armor is jointed. They will definitely make it through the kevlar body plating soldiers without power armor will be wearing. Her mouth is set in a grim line as she clips the sling to her rifle, carrying it across her body. Her pack is full of loaded magazines, her belt with stun grenades.

“Let’s go, before the sky opens on us and kills all visibility,” she commands, turning and taking the stairs back down to the ground two at a time. He follows, casting one more glance at the ominous sky overhead.

Brotherhood troops are thick on the ground level, milling around outside the doors and walking in alternating patrols. Frankie crouches behind a burned-out car, and he joins her.

“What are they here for?” He asks.

“The same thing we are, according to Fillmore. A Beryllium Agitator. We want it for the reactor, they want it for a giant robot. It’s a race to the finish line at this point.”

“A giant robot?” He repeats, questioning. 

“Also known as Liberty Prime. Pre-war tech, apparently already resurrected once and destroyed again while in service to the Brotherhood. They’ve been rebuilding him, and have everything but the power source now. That’s partly my fault. Every death that occurs today is blood on my hands.”

He isn’t sure what she means by that, but it concerns him. It sounds like she has been  _ helping _ the Brotherhood, before parting ways. Likely it has something to do with the  _ friend  _ she mentioned, the one she helped. He should never have left her side, never given up on his watch. He should have argued with Father on the importance of keeping an eye on her. Not that it matters, now. Either they succeed here, or they fail. Another flash above them, followed by a rolling  _ boom.  _ Ozone is heavy on the air, makes the hairs on his neck stand on end.

“There is no way we are making it in via stealth,” she tells him. “There are too many of them. Load up, and remember… Don’t kill unless you have no choice.”

His answer is the click of his stealth field switching on.

She peers over the car, pulls the pin from the stun grenade she is holding, and lobs it over in an arc that would win a superbowl in pre-war times. It sails through the air, lands in the middle of the squad of knights standing before the entrance, and detonates with a resounding  _ boom  _ to rival the thunder overhead. She has another in her hand before the shockwave is finished rippling through the sea of soldiers and abandoned buildings, letting it fly before leaping over the car and sliding across the rusted hood to the other side.

_ He is wrong about her, _ he thinks, not for the first time. She is not softened by her past, it is the reason she is so resolute now. She opens fire, and he sees her shots are carefully placed. The joints of weapon arms, the pistons of pneumatic legs, visors and headlamps and the receivers of rifles. She is disabling them, crippling them, taking away their ability to fight while charging across the distance like a cyclone sent down by the churlish clouds overhead. He follows her lead, allowing his conditioning to take over. He respects her wishes, doing his best to disable rather than kill. It is not always doable, and he knows it will be forgiven. She has only asked that he try. 

He ducks a swinging power fist, pivoting and seizing the back of the power armor before wrenching the fusion core free. The armor goes still as a statue, a glorified brick without its power source. A shot from behind scores the skin on one cheek. He turns in time to see the flash of laser fire as the scribe fires a second shot at him. The first shot was lucky, fired blindly at the shimmering waves of the stealth field. The second just misses him, his continuing movement the only thing that saves him. Out of his periphery he sees a flash of movement before blood spurts from the fractured side of the scribe’s head. Frankie is already moving on, a flurry of cold and calculated movements, engaging with another knight in armor. The scribe is dead, and there is no time to dwell on it. He moves on, ducking and dodging and fighting alongside Frankie until the battlefield at their feet is a mass of groaning men, disabled or broken power armor, and the abject silence of the dead. Frankie has hardly worked up a sweat, though her breathing is strained from the effort. She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t speak, only pushes on into the lobby of the building beyond.

The lobby has more soldiers within, and they meet Frankie and X6 at the door. There could be no missing the sounds of conflict outside, and it is likely the call for backup has been made. They have little time. Frankie senses the urgency, and the altercation is relatively shorter and less bloody. There are not so many knights in power armor here, easier to combat. Frankie uses the last of her stun grenades, wading into the fray and allowing the smoke to obscure her, giving herself an advantage. Many are wounded, a few perish. Frankie, like X6, hits what she aims for with deadly accuracy. Most of the soldiers will live. Some may hold guns again, some may not. At least she has gifted them their lives. X6 would not be so merciful, were it not for Frankie’s orders. Once the area is cleared, he switches off his stealth field and watches for threats while Frankie searches for information. She accesses a terminal, black eyes lit up eerily by the green lettering scrolling across the screen. She skims records, nods when she has what she needs.

“We need to get to the reactor level. That elevator should take us down. We’re going to need an access card, it’s restricted. Search the soldiers.”

They make their way through the fallen men and women, and he can see that the groans and cries of pain bring her no joy. Her face is drawn, tight, her expression dark. He can see self loathing there, the same self loathing she exhibited when she shared the story of her experience in the war. She is remembering the way it felt to clear that compound, to step over the dead and dying and wounded.

She pivots suddenly, boot coming down on a partially raised hand. The gun clatters back to the floor, and she kicks it away from the soldier’s hand. The soldier is young, his face unlined by age. He is an Initiate, likely never having taken a human life yet. He stares up at Frankie, and X6 can see the young man’s lip tremble.

“Knight Wagner,” he gasps. “How could you do this?”

She crouches, wasting precious seconds, but X6 does not interrupt. This is not his war to fight. This is a war within Frankie. A sad smile crosses her face, an attempt at comfort, though whether it is for the Initiate or herself, X6 could not say.

“This is war, kid. This is what it looks like. It’s ugly, and it’s often done without just cause. Get out while you can, before death finds you.” She stands, eyes shining a little too brightly, and moves on. 

X6 finds the key card on a dead knight, tucked in the breast pocket of a flack vest. He clears his throat, draws Frankie’s attention back to him. She sees it and grants him a curt nod, striding over to the elevator. He hands her the card and she swipes it, averts her eyes. She is not hiding from him, but she is avoiding his gaze. On the elevator, she speaks - eyes staring down at her feet and the dark crimson splashes on them.

“Their blood on my boots,” she says in a hollow voice. She doesn’t elaborate further, and he places a hand on her shoulder. It is the best he can do, when he does not know the right words to comfort her.

The elevator opens, and Frankie steps into the dim light of the reactor level. There are no Brotherhood soldiers down here, not yet. The geiger counter in her Pip-Boy begins to tick with alarm. Low levels, still somewhat safe, but not good for human tissue regardless. She seems to realize this, stops and opens her pack. She withdraws a dark brown pill bottle and a can of purified water. She has come prepared, it would seem, and he watches as she takes a double dose of Rad-X.

“That may not be enough further in,” he cautions.

“We’ll deal with that when we get to it,” she says, moving forward. A row of windows overlooks the reactor room itself, and Frankie wipes at the window with a gloved hand. She grimaces when the contact leaves a smudge of blood, and she looks at her hand as though it is a serpent intending to lash out at her. X6 steps forward, rubs at the filmy glass himself, and clears a spot for them to peer through. She lets out a low whistle, shakes her head. “That’s going to cook me like a Christmas goose.”

“Radiation does not harm me as it does you,” he reminds her. “When we are close, allow me to retrieve the Beryllium Agitator.”

She looks at him, chuckles. “There’s a certain kismet to having you here, isn’t there? Good plan. I’ll follow you as far as I can, in case more of our friends appear. Let’s go.”

She turns, choosing the corridor to their right. The corridor leads to a cavernous room with an all-glass wall, overlooking the reactor itself. This is the control room. To the left, there is a decontamination chamber that opens into the reactor room. 

“Be careful,” she says, taking up position by the door. It is more than a warning, more than mere caution. There is something in her voice he hasn’t heard before, and he regards her for a moment in quiet puzzlement before inclining his head to her and stepping into the chamber. The last thing he hears before the door shutters behind him is the significantly faster ticking of her geiger counter.

He presses a button, and water jets from the arches above him. It is cold, bearing the metallic stink of stagnant water sitting too long within pipes. Whatever decontaminating properties they once had are long gone. Shortly after it begins, the water stops. An automatic voice informs him the decontamination process is complete, and the door to the reactor room opens at last. Frankie’s voice comes over the speakers built into the facility’s ceiling.

“It should be up at the top of the reactor. Fillmore said that’s where it would be on this model of reactor,” she tells him. He climbs the steps. While largely immune to radiation, courtesy of the Institute’s scientific brilliance, the massive dose of it now leaves him feeling oddly fatigued. Each step he climbs feels somehow as though his boots are wading through deep water. He does his best to hasten his pace despite the sensation. They won’t have long down here before the Brotherhood figures out where they went.

At the top of the stairs, the reactor looms. He reaches the platform, looks around him. There is a control panel to the right, with a release button. He presses the button, watches the cylinder containing the agitator turn, open. The Beryllium Agitator is smaller than he thought it would be, roughly the length of a missile and the diameter of his upper arm. He places it carefully in the container Fillmore provided to Frankie, and as he seals it once more, the distinctive sound of gunfire echoes through the reactor room. The gunfire is not in the reactor room itself, but in the viewing room beyond, muffled by the glass. He looks up, eyes searching, and sees cracks forming in the filmy surface; bullets studding the thick glass before him. Inside, Frankie is pinned down behind an old metal desk while Brotherhood soldiers unleash a torrent on her. He throws the agitator’s container into his pack, shoulders it, and races back down the stairs once more. Frankie can handle herself, he knows, but not for long. Not cornered as she is, and without backup.

He flips on his stealth field once more, ignoring the rounds ricocheting off the door frame around him as he exits the decontamination chamber. Frankie is returning fire, shooting blindly over the rusting metal desk she has taken refuge behind. He is struggling, still not feeling quite himself after facing enough radiation to kill a normal man thirty times over. His movements are sluggish but he does his best, whipping through the Brotherhood soldiers and disabling or injuring where he can. A fist closes over him, a lucky grab, and there is a snap as the stealth device on his wrist is crunched beneath powerful fingers. Shards of plastic dig into the skin of his wrist, and his stealth field fails. He lets out a hoarse yell as the soldier in power armor lifts him, as though he weighs nothing, and grabs his other arm. He is helpless against the unnatural strength of steel and pistons, and suddenly remembers the way Frankie killed the deathclaw. He remembers the sound of tendons snapping, vertebrae cracking, and knows he is about to be torn in half.

_ “No!” _ He hears an otherworldly roar, and Frankie rises from her position behind the desk. 

A well-placed round tears through the softer gasket where the helmet needs the torso of the armor, and the soldier holding X6 grunts in surprise. He drops X6, raises a hand to the hole in his suit. The bullet has found purchase within the hard shell, and the soldier sways on his feet. The remaining soldiers open fire in unison, directing their efforts towards the tall blond woman backed by the high class wall. Time slows, all but stopping. He thinks if he focuses he might be able to see the bullets as they striate through the air, hear the roar of rifle blowback. Time resumes. X6 rises to his feet, willing the weakness from his limbs by sheer force of will, and stares in horror as Frankie falls back against the glass behind her before sliding down to the floor in a limp heap. Blood paints a garish stripe down the dusky glass where she has made contact, evidence of the damage to her body. 

Something snaps in X6. He breaks his promise to Frankie, then. He relinquishes all control, returns to his origins. He is an Institute Courser, a weapon, a culmination of science. He is designed to be lethal, to be the Institute’s strength. Now, he will be Frankie’s strength where she cannot be. He gives no accord to the soldiers that remain, and their deaths are both terrible and swift. This is what he knows, what he was made for. The breaking of bone and the spilling of blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrid and I'm sorry :B


	13. Just The Mission

Frankie has not moved from where she is slumped against the glass wall. Her head is forward, chin resting on her chest, eyes closed. The sight of her in such a state sickens him. He drops to his knees, the sea of death at his back and before him. It encompasses him, roars in his ears. He has to get her out of here, before more soldiers come. He removes a glove, presses fingers to her neck. There is a pulse, though it is very weak. 

“Frankie,” he whispers, afraid to raise his voice any louder lest he shatter her tenuous hold on life. “Frankie, _please.”_ No answer comes, save for the cracking and breaking of his own heart like the ice on a frozen lake. 

The roaring in his ears reaches a crescendo. This can’t be happening, not to Frankie. Frankie, who has never let anything stop her for long. His dragon, her scales tougher than any armor. He raises her wrist, flips through the menu on her Pip-Boy. He pulls up the relay control. It is their only way back, with his own device crushed. He enters the coordinates he has long known by heart. _Home._ Her home, now. His home, always. He encircles her shoulders with one arm, slides the other beneath her knees, and lifts her as the light envelopes them.

He is met within the Institute by stunned silence. He knows he must look a fright, standing there in the middle of the white Atrium, covered in blood and holding the Director’s aunt in his arms. She is bleeding heavily from multiple gunshots, and he can hear the _pat pat pat_ of it as it drips onto the Atrium floor. As soon as there is solid ground beneath his feet and he has oriented himself, he is moving. Past the staring eyes of humans and synths, past the stone-faced Coursers on patrol. None interfere. None have ever interfered where he is concerned. _Father’s favorite._ If anyone can save her, it is Doctor Volkert. X6 barges into the medical clinic, and Volkert is on his feet immediately.

“Set her down there,” the man indicates one of the sterile white beds. X6 obeys, and his withdrawing hands leave crimson stains upon the white sheets. An assistant rushes to Volkert’s side, and together they begin to remove Frankie’s body armor and cut away her clothes. X6 can see some of it. There is a bullet hole at the juxtaposition of her jaw and neck. Blood pulses out of it, pools at the hollow of her throat now that she is prone. Her shirt beneath the chest plate is soaked through, and X6 does not avert his eyes as Volkert and the assistant’s shears cut away the last of it. He cannot look away, though he feels he should. This body - Frankie’s body - was warm and full of life and pressed against his own just hours ago. Now he is afraid it is empty, that she is gone. That his Frankie has left him.

“Get me a unit of blood. O negative,” Volkert barks at the assistant. He is now pressing a surgical towel to a wound in her abdomen, applying pressure to slow the bleeding. The assistant rushes away, and Volkert focuses on X6. “Take that cloth there and press it to the injury to her neck. If she loses any more blood, there won’t be much any of us can do. Just apply steady pressure until I tell you to stop.”

X6 obeys, lifts the cloth and presses it to the weeping hole beneath her jawline. He remembers placing a kiss there; feeling her pulse fluttering against his lips and enjoying the way it felt. The knowing that came with that pulse, the surety that it was fluttering because _he_ was touching her. His throat constricts so tightly it hurts, and he thinks he might join her as the room swims about him. He has never cried before, but he thinks perhaps he might if Frankie doesn’t stop bleeding. _Pat, pat, pat._

The assistant returns, hooks up the IV. 

“You may leave now,” Volkert tells X6. “Report back to your regular duties. We’ve got it from here.”

X6 only stares at him, unable to bring himself to move.

“Leave, unit, this no longer concerns you.” Volkert’s voice takes on a hard quality, demanding compliance. X6 backs away one step, then two, eyes focusing on Frankie’s face one last time. There is nothing there. No Mona Lisa smile, no anger or sadness or fear or longing. Only a blank slate that wears Frankie’s features like an afterthought. He turns before he loses the last of his control, before his airway finishes closing and he falls to his knees in an ungraceful descent. Somehow, he finds his way into an empty office. He leans against the wall, fights for air. Frankie’s voice comes to him then, whispering to him amidst the turmoil in his thoughts. 

_Focus on the rhythm of your breathing and nothing else._

“I can’t do this without you,” he gasps to the empty office, to the paintings hanging on the wall and the chair tucked neatly under the desk. “I can’t.” It is a mewling cry of a word, a child’s bleating. He knows he should feel ashamed of himself.

_Focus on the rhythm of your breathing and nothing else._

He obeys the insistent voice, then, letting his head fall back against the wall as he struggles through the breathing. In time, he finds his footing. The edges of his vision clear, his heart resumes its painful beating. He must report to Father. Father should know what has happened. He remembers from some dim place that the Beryllium Agitator is still in the pack on his shoulders. A vision comes into his mind, unbidden. An image from another time, when he was still X6 but far different.

_He walks up the street, cold eyes on the raider before him. The man has stepped on one of his own mines, placed to ambush the next caravan. In his haste to escape X6, he has forgotten all about his trap. Now the man lies in the middle of the mostly-dirt road, the asphalt long since crumbling away with time. X6 stops at the edge of where the blood begins, regards the raider with impassive eyes. If the raider notices, he does not speak. He is fixated on his task. Fingers, bloody and covered in dirt and grime, scrabble at the earth. He is attempting to scoop his intestines back into his ruined body, refusing to accept this is it. This is the end of his miserable, worthless life. X6 watches, head cocked with interest. This display of a blatant refusal to accept death fascinates him. The man’s innards paint the ground in a five foot radius around him, and still he claws at the glistening mass._

_“Why won’t you simply die?” He asks, making no move to end the man’s suffering._

_The raider looks up at that, eyes wide and red-rimmed. “Because I’m not ready to lose everything,” comes the answer._

_X6 leaves the man to his bloody task, continuing up the road. His target is somewhere nearby, he is sure of it. If the raider didn’t kill the escaped synth already._

He feels like the raider, now. Clawing at his insides, attempting to gather back in what has already been spilled. There can be no going back, it is too late for him. And he is not ready to lose everything.

Strength returns to him. He straightens, pulls himself together. He pushes himself up off the wall and leaves the empty office. He will make his report to Father, and then he will wait. One way or another, his life is changing forever. With Frankie, he can aid in restoring the Institute to its purpose. Without her, he will be decommissioned. There will be no one to stop Ayo from having X6 wiped or destroyed. It is likely the latter Ayo seeks now, after the incident in SRB. X6 has flouted his authority one too many times. Frankie was his shield, and now Frankie may not be there again to act as such. He is alone; more alone than he has ever felt in all his life.

“Enter,” Father’s voice calls in answer to X6 softly rapping on the door. X6 steps into Father’s quarters. Father is resting on the couch, lying on his side. He pushes himself into a sitting position upon seeing X6, looking relieved that he will not have to feign vitality. Not in X6’s presence. X6 has long been trusted with Father’s secret.

“Sir, there has been an incident,” X6 begins. Father’s already drawn face tightens, and X6 explains the hazardous mission and its bloody conclusion. There are so many things he leaves out, things he cannot tell Father lest he betray himself and Frankie. Somehow, he keeps his voice steady. Somehow, he is able to recite details without losing control again. There is not so much as a quiver to his brow. His hands do not shake. He supposes he has years of habit to thank. This is only a mission, he is only reporting the events of it. This isn’t about Frankie, this is just the mission. 

Just the mission. 

Just the mission.

Father listens quietly until X6 reaches his conclusion, before bowing his head and covering his face with his hand.

“I should never have sent her,” he says in a voice thick with emotion. It surprises X6, and he realizes in that moment that Father - just as X6 does - cares for Frankie. “We knew the Brotherhood was looking for the agitator as well, but I thought… there was enough time. I couldn’t have known they were already there, waiting for her.” He lifts his face again, and he is paler than X6 has ever seen him. The shadows beneath his eyes look like bruises, as though someone has hit him in each eye. The hollows in his cheeks are beginning to cast shadows of their own, and X6 sees how little time there is left. Father has days, perhaps a week, before he will be unable to rise from his bed again. 

X6 finds it strange, uncomfortable, to look upon a man who was once so strong and vital and full of purpose… and see the shadow of death clinging to him. He wonders if his time will come. Though synthesized, the tissue comprising his body degrades just as all organic matter does. He is not the shell, but rather, the shellfish within. X6 cannot imagine being so feeble, so lackluster, and in truth he will likely never be allowed to reach such a state. Institute policy has always been to decommission units before they grow old or invalid. There has never been an old synth, though he imagines there might be some on the surface. Synths, who escaped and chose to live as humans. 

“Shall I go watch? I can track the progress of Doctor Volkert’s work and report back should her status change.” He means the words to be crisp, clear, the query of a Courser asking after his master’s wishes. What he truly wants is the iron of Father’s order to back him against Volkert, to force the doctor to tolerate his presence. Here, at last, he fails. The words wobble like an infant seeking purchase, and Father does not miss the tremor in X6’s voice. His sharp eyes, suddenly much more like Frankie’s than they have ever been, home in on him.

“You have grown to care for her,” Father observes with an equally sharp tone.

“She is a great woman, as you are a great man.”

“Don’t dance around me, X6-88,” Father snaps. “Answer me truthfully. What is the nature of your feelings towards Franka?”

He has never lied to Father, never even come close to such a thing. But he lies, now. It is not borne of any innate desire to protect the man or protect himself. It is entirely to protect Frankie. To protect Father’s image of her, and ensure her ascension to the position of Director. If Father knew what had changed between the two of them, if he could see the things in X6’s head, he would never allow Frankie to take over as Director. She does not believe as he does; that synths are machines and tools. That they are lesser beings than their creators.

“I apologize, sir. I have been experiencing some… distress regarding your declining health. I am ill-prepared to lose you, and it has been affecting me greatly these recent days.”

Father leans back, looking cautious but relieved. “It is what awaits us all, X6. It will do you no good to dwell on it. Perhaps when all this is over, a reset is in order. I would hate for this to affect your ability to function in your given office.”

“Of course, Father,” X6 bows his head, lowers his eyes respectfully. He longs for his glasses, but has long since thrown them aside to please Frankie. He can only hope his mask is as good as hers.

“Doctor Volkert will send for me should the circumstances turn dire. For now, go clean yourself up. You appear to be wearing most of what remains of my family.” Father’s eyes are fixated on X6, on the blood soaking his vest and shirt and pants and boots. X6 inclines his head once more, before seeing himself out.

He showers, scouring his skin until the abused surface is raw and burns beneath the hot water. Somehow, it feels as though Frankie’s blood is still staining his skin. The showers are quiet, empty. All the other Coursers have been in and finished their routines for the days. He dresses in silence. He cannot face returning to SRB, cannot look Ayo in the eyes and see the relish the man is no doubt experiencing at Frankie’s fate. He decides to sleep, in the hope that when he awakes, there will be a change. That Frankie will be awake again; those bottomless eyes of hers searching his, seeking out the things only she has ever believed are there. 

When he wakes, it is six in the morning. Frankie has been in surgery for ten hours. X6 does his best not to pace, not to hover. She has been moved to Robotics, where Doctor Binet has joined Volkert in the life saving efforts. X6 walks through the clinic, observing the disarray. None have come through here to tidy up yet, and the bed where Frankie lay is still soaked in blood, the sheets stiff with it and little curls of it dried on the floor. He reaches out, lets his fingers graze the stiff polyester.

_Fight it, Frankie,_ he pleads silently. _The Institute needs you, but I need you more._

It is a cruel cage to be locked in; an immovable prison in which he cannot express himself or his true feelings lest he be discovered. He cannot be there for her, cannot watch over her as he once did or hold her hand while she recovers. He is a tool, to be sent back to his shelf until there is a need for him. He hates them all, then. All the scientists who made him. Ayo. Father. Binet. Volkert. They have made him, and so they have created this endless torment of limbo.

-

Frankie doesn’t regain consciousness immediately after the surgery. Volkert tells Father she will either wake soon, or she won’t for some time. It is entirely up to her, and there is nothing more he can do. X6 leaves the Institute under the pretense of carrying out requests Frankie assigned him before the incident. He has come too close to revealing himself to Father once already, and so he must be even more careful now. He doesn’t know how he manages it. To feel so much and be unable to show any of it or experience it is a personal hell. To allow his torment to show in his eyes would mean a sure end. Perhaps the mental image of Frankie, lying wanly on a crisp white bed, is the thing that gives him the strength to go on. For her, he can do it. He can be _unit X6-88_ until his Frankie returns to him. And so, he makes himself scarce. He goes back to the surface and hunts and kills things until the pain in his chest is no longer a deafening roar but a whimper, and he can breathe without it being a struggle. 

He is in the streets of Boston for the second day in a row, mindlessly wandering and killing every feral ghoul and raider and super mutant he encounters, when he hears the loud whispering. He switches to stealth, moves silently down an alley to his right, and looks down. At the bottom of the steps at his feet, two people stand. A bald man wearing a long duster over ragged jeans and a metal chest plate is talking to a tall, skinny man with dusky skin in a low voice.

“...It’s not safe enough to move the package. You know there’s been Courser activity in the area recently. You’ve gotta wait, man. Moving right now is suicide, for both yourself and the package. Hunker down, hang tight. Just asking us to meet you here was reckless enough.”

The skinny man shakes his head, face a mask of worry. “Look man, there were dead raiders a quarter mile from the safehouse, and they died at the hands of a Courser. I’m sure of it. Laser shots, in the center of every forehead. They’re getting _way_ too close for my comfort. You can’t ask us to just… sit there and wait for death to come knocking.”

X6 remembers the raiders, remembers killing them. 

He suddenly realizes what he has stumbled onto. These men are members of the Railroad, the elusive organization that has repeatedly thwarted the Institute’s attempts at containing the synth population. To kill them would be a blow to the Railroad in turn for once. His hand curls around his laser pistol. Two shots, and two members of the Railroad are taken out of the game. Father will be pleased... But would Frankie be pleased? Does Frankie know these people? There is plenty about Frankie he doesn’t know, still. All the weeks of her life on the Wasteland that he missed have left him blind to much of her. 

There is a click behind him, immediately accompanied by cold steel being pressed to the base of his skull. He goes even more still than he already was. One wrong move, and he knows his brain stem being blown away will be the least of his problems.

“Switch off your stealth,” a cold female voice says from behind him. The reaction in the people at the bottom of the stairs is immediate at the breaking of silence about them. Both the bald man and the tall man quickly bring their weapons up and aim them in the direction of X6 and the unseen woman behind him.

“Glory, what the hell are you doing?” The bald man demands, looking at a point over X6’s shoulder.

“Must I always be smarter and faster than you?” Glory drawls. “While the two of you were enjoying your top secret conversation _in the middle of an open street,_ a Courser was standing here watching you and listening in. Speaking of, show yourself.” The latter is directed at X6, and the barrel is jammed harder against the nape of his neck. “Before my finger gets itchy and I put an end to you. No sudden moves, either. I can see you just fine. I’ve got military grade infrared glasses, buddy.”

He moves slowly, deliberately, reaching over to his left wrist and switching off the stealth field. He wonders what his chances are; if he is fast enough to pivot and disarm her. Perhaps he could use her as a body shield, allowing the gunfire from her friends to pepper her body rather than himself. The stealth field drops, and the mouths of the two men drop in shock. The tall one takes an actual step back, eyes wide as moons.

_“Holy shit,_ I told you, Deacon. I told you they were getting far too goddamn close. Oh, man. Holy shit.” His gun actually wavers in the air as his arms wobble with fear. X6 says nothing, only stares intently at the men before him. The bald man, Deacon, seems entirely unfazed. He looks at X6 intently for a moment, entirely unsurprised.

“You guys know who that is, right?”

“Don’t pretend you know an Institute Courser, Deacon,” Glory snaps. “I’m so sick of all your bullshitting and tall tales.”

“No, really, _look_ at him. That’s the Courser who’s been hanging out with little miss Frankie. You don’t recognize him? He’s pretty damn hard to miss.” A lazy smile crosses Deacon’s face. He is like a cat, grown fat from exorbitant amounts of food, satisfied that he knows something the others don’t.

They know Frankie. They know _his_ Frankie. He wonders what the relationship between them is. If she is an ally, or a mere acquaintance. If she likes these people, trusts them. He wishes she were here. He will likely die here, his body left on this street for scavengers to pick over. She will never know what happened to him.

The barrel pressed into his flesh doesn’t waver. “What the hell is he doing here stalking you, then, if he’s Frankie’s friend? Looks to me like he was about to kill you.”

Deacon angles his head, contemplating. “Is that what you were doing, you enormous lump of a killing machine? Were you here to kill us?”

He does not answer. He owes nothing to them.

“Answer him,” Glory growls, pressing the barrel into his vertebrae so hard he knows it will bruise.

“How do you know Frankie?” He answers her demand with one of his own. 

“Guys, I _really_ don’t want to be here for this,” the skinny man says, voice pleading.

“You can go, we’ll take it from here,” Deacon tells him. The man wastes no time, all but running down the street and not looking back once. Deacon turns back to X6. “Listen, I don’t know what side you’re on, but we can’t all keep standing here burnin’ daylight. I don’t want to kill Frankie’s pet project, but I also don’t want to die, you dig? So you’re gonna have to give us something to work with, or Glory here will put a bullet in the back of your head. Do we understand each other?”

X6 considers the words, then speaks. “Answer my question, and I will answer yours. How do _you_ know Frankie?”

Deacon smiles, looking somewhat amused at the situation. “She came to us a while back, had us help her decode a Courser chip. You could say we are the reason Frankie found her way into the Institute to begin with. Without us, she would never have been able to build that relay.” 

“Then you are allies to her,” X6 states. He isn’t sure if this information is a relief or a blow to his chest. All this time, she has known where the Railroad operates and at least a few of the people within it. It is not quite a betrayal of the Institute, but very nearly one. Between aiding the Brotherhood and consorting with the Institute, Frankie has been operating on shaky ground for some time.

Deacon shrugs. “I suppose. She kinda disappeared on us after we helped her with the Courser chip. Said she wasn’t big on joining clubs. I’d classify her as neither friend nor foe. Now it’s your turn. Were you sent here to kill us?”

“No,” X6 answers honestly. “I was… patrolling the area and happened upon you by accident. Though killing you was a logical conclusion.”

_“A logical conclusion?”_ Glory snarls. “Come on Deacon, why are we wasting time with him? Let me make a _logical conclusion.”_

Deacon ignores her, rubs his chin contemplatively. “Where is Frankie now? Are the two of you no longer pals?”

“She is out of commission at the moment,” X6 says before he can catch himself. This was not news he intended to share. His recent mental state has left him stupid, vulnerable. He is a far cry from the Courser he was months ago.

“Did you hurt her?” Glory demands.

“I would _never_ hurt her,” he answers reflexively, vehemently. Deacon does not miss the conviction in his voice.

“The two of you are close, huh?” Deacon’s voice is thoughtful.

_“Deacon,”_ Glory’s tone is one of warning.

“Glory,” Deacon’s words are soft. “I think there’s more at play here than we realize. We need to let him go.”

“Like hell we do,” she is stunned at his suggestion, the barrel not moving from its position.

“He’s not the first to go through something like this. We have to let him go, or he’ll never know what he could be.”

The words puzzle X6. He should be dead. They should have killed him by now. Why this discussion? Why spare him? What is it they think he could be?

“I have a feeling you’re going to regret this,” Glory tells Deacon. “Besides, the second I take this gun off him, he’s going to kill us both.”

“No, he’s not.” Deacon produces handcuffs from a pocket. “It should take him a few minutes at least to get out of these. Time enough for us to disappear.”

Deacon tosses the cuffs to X6, who automatically catches them. He stares at them in his hand dumbly.

“Put them on,” Deacon prompts him. “It’s the only way you get out of this without Glory killing you.”

There is no room for argument. Either he obeys, or he dies. If he dies, he will never see Frankie again. He will never know if she wakes from her terrible sleep. X6 does as directed, placing a link around one wrist and then joining his hands behind his back. Glory’s free hand tightens the other link, a little too tightly. The steel bites into X6’s wrist. Her way of getting a pound of flesh, he supposes.

“Now, we’re gonna go. If you follow us, Glory will kill you. I won’t hold her back a second time,” Deacon tells him. “Don’t waste the gift have you been given. Not only from us, but from Frankie.”

Glory shoves X6, forcing him to his knees, and without any further words, she and Deacon take off at a dead sprint down the street. X6 watches until they disappear around a corner. He could try to follow them. He has tracked quarry many times with less to go on... but it is more than fear of death that is keeping him on his knees. 

_Don’t waste the gift have you been given._

The words make laps in his mind, round and round. What gift has he been given by Frankie? 


	14. A Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally. The chapter we have all been waiting for. *drumroll*  
> \--------------

He returns to the Institute on the evening of the fourth day, and another Courser approaches him.

“Your presence is requested in the clinic,” a smooth voice informs him.

“I will report at once,” he answers stoically, though his heart takes up a wild rhythm that is nothing like what normalcy dictates.

She is sitting up in bed when he enters, methodically pulling tubes and needles and electrodes from herself. Volkert’s assistant is fluttering nearby, uttering little squeaks of protest in between scathing glares from Frankie.

“Should you be doing that?” He asks as she lifts the tape holding the IV in her arm. What he wants to say is,  _ I’m so glad you’re okay. I have been so lost without you. I was afraid the last time I saw you was truly the last.  _

“Fortunately for me, I am neither dead nor dying. As such, I decide my own destiny, and my destiny does not include being a human pincushion for one more goddamn second,” she replies easily, not slowing her progress. When the last tether has been detached, she struggles until her legs are hanging over the side of the bed. She is clad in some sort of hospital gown, tied at the back. She looks weak, tired, like someone who has been very near to death might look, but her eyes gleam wickedly in the sterile light overhead. There will be time, soon, for him to press his lips to the warm skin of her forehead. To convey to her with that simple act all the things he cannot - does not know how - to say. But for now, she is the future Director and he is simply unit X6-88, checking in as ordered.

“Find me some pants,” she tells the assistant. “Size 8. And some shoes, too,” she adds musingly, staring at her bare feet. The assistant, utterly terrified of the woman in the bed, nods and disappears as fast as possible. Frankie grins at that, looks up at X6, and he is flooded with relief to see the same Frankie looking back. The Frankie he has not always known, but has known more recently. The Frankie he… cannot bear to be without. “Miss me, handsome?” She asks, and the words are sweet like preserves and soft like her bed and warm like the sun on his face.

“You nearly died for me,” is all he can bring himself to say. To say any more would be to lose control over his uncharacteristically erratic emotions.

Frankie gestures at the bandage on her neck, shrugs. “Nothing modern medicine can’t fix. Are you okay? Have they been kind to you in my absence?”

Even now, sitting on a hospital bed and only a few days past from a nearly absolute death, she is worried about him. She cares what has happened to him in the days she has been away, and the tenderness in her voice threatens to undo all the control he has only recently regained. He nods, letting his eyes tell her what his frozen vocal cords cannot.

“Good,” she smiles. “Brotherhood soldiers are one thing, but an army of Institute Coursers might do me in for good. I’d rather not fight that battle just now.”

“You would not take on the entire Institute on my account,” he states without confidence.

“Wouldn’t I?” Her voice is soft, and the way she looks at him makes his cheeks turn hot and his mouth go dry.

“Does Father know you are awake?” He asks her, struggling for purchase, changing the subject to save himself.

“He knows,” she acknowledges. “And as soon as my pants arrive, I will be joining him in the boardroom for the meeting he has called at my behest.”

“You have only just narrowly survived a firefight. Are you sure you should be up and moving around?” He scans her with his eyes, attempting to assess the extent of her healing injuries.

“I got lucky,” she tells him. “If I didn’t have you there with me, I wouldn’t be here today. _You’re_ my lucky charm. And now it is time for me to finish what I started. I’ve wasted four precious days lying here like a useless idiot. I won’t stay another minute.”

She stands, then, punctuating the sentiment with her effort. She almost falls, her long legs attempting to give out beneath her. He is moving already, having seen what was coming beforehand. Strong though she is, skilled as she might be, she is still weak and still healing. She will return to her former self in time, but for now she is not what she once was. He supports her, a hand on each of her arms, and she gives him her token lopsided grin. The one that is only for him. He thinks for a moment she might kiss him, despite their standing in the midst of the Institute and being watched by unfriendly eyes. Despite four days spent in a hospital bed, she somehow still smells like typical Frankie. A hint of tobacco, sun-warmed and sweet. He has not forgotten what it is like to hold her, to bury his face in that long golden neck and taste the salt on her skin. He wonders if he will allow it, if he will let her damn herself alongside him, but the moment passes.

“See,” she whispers. “Lucky charm.”

The assistant arrives with a stack of neatly folded clothing in her arms. If she notices the contact between them, she does not comment on it. She is a synth, and her opinion is not something that is ever asked for or respected. She sets the items on the bed and departs once more, eyes downcast. Obedient. He sees himself in her lowered gaze and retreating back, and it is like being stung. A sharp pain, somewhere vital. 

Frankie finds her footing, inspects the items brought to her. There is a white shirt bearing an Institute logo on it, white pants, and soft white slip-on shoes. She grimaces. She once swore she would never wear an Institute jumpsuit, but this is very nearly that.

“Here,” he finds himself saying, shrugging his long leather coat from his shoulders. She smiles at the offered item, brows raised.

“How generous of you. I might need your shirt, too. And your pants.”

She is teasing him, _flirting,_ and he enjoys every second of it. He is learning, little by little, how to handle her moments of sweetness and humor. He grins back at her, but does not lower the jacket. She takes it with a soft  _ thank you,  _ then looks towards the door reluctantly. He knows what the problem is, and without needing prompting, goes to it. He steps outside the room, closes the door behind him, and allows her some privacy. He doubts Frankie would ordinarily have an issue with changing in a public setting, but that was before bandages covering her body. Before she had been taken down to her knees for a time. She feels vulnerable in a way she is not used to, and he will honor and defend her desire to keep that feeling close to her chest.

After a few minutes, the door opens behind him. Frankie stands there, and though the jacket is a bit too long and a bit baggy on her, it otherwise suits her. If he did not know her, if they were strangers, he might think she was a Courser herself. Her black eyes gleam, and the shadows cast from the cold light overhead only enhance the hard lines of her nose and the softer but substantial shapes of her strong bone structure.

“You are beautiful,” he tells her in a fit of absurdity. She answers with an enigmatic smile, aware of the people and synths alike milling beyond the door, and steps into the hall beside him.

“Escort me to the board room?” She asks. She doesn’t need to ask. He will be at her side every moment he is able.

They make their way through the halls, and again he wishes he - they - were elsewhere. Tangled up in each other in the bed with the tarnished and ornate frame, perhaps. Or sitting on the balcony, wrapped up in blankets and watching the sun climb over the ocean’s edge. Today would change everything. She would no longer be his Frankie. She would be the Institute’s Frankie, and all those little stolen moments would be memories and nothing more. He has only just begun to know her, truly know her, and it is being taken from him again.

Her pace is deliberate, slow, her limp more pronounced in her state of weakness. She does not take his arm, nor does she lean on walls. She forces herself forward, demanding her body do as she wishes, one step in front of the other and taking every stair. It is for herself that she does this, and her stubbornness only adds to the extensive list of things that make him forget to breathe around her. 

She gives him the full run-down. Four bullets tore their way through her body that day in Mass Fusion. One took a chunk out of her right ear, though Volkert was able to stitch it in a way that minimized the crescent of missing cartilage.  _ My tomcat ear,  _ she chuckles, the reference lost on X6. One, just beneath her jaw and narrowly missing her carotid. One through her left bicep, that shattered the bone. There is a plate there now, she tells him, binding the damaged humerus together. One through her abdomen, the edge of her vest altering the trajectory of the bullet just enough that it saved her life, though not without causing severe internal bleeding. Anyone but his Frankie would still be in bed, but she has never been one for such things. She will rest when the job is done.

Frankie stops outside the board room’s door. The others are already assembled within, each department head seated in their respective chair. Frankie leans close, so close her breath gently tickles his cheek.

“Tell me, X… Would you stand at my side, no matter what choices I make as Director?”

The question should alarm him, but it doesn’t.

“Yes,” he breathes back. “Whatever comes, I am yours.”

The words have more meaning behind them than he intended for them to, and there is a flicker of understanding in her eyes as she pulls back and nods. Obsidian eyes gleam, with something meant only for him.

_ Yours, yours, yours,  _ his heart taps out as though she might hear it. She turns, then, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her with a soft  _ click.  _

__

The first fifteen minutes are relatively quiet. He recognizes the timbre of Father’s voice, the lower tone of Frankie speaking. He wishes he could make out the words, but the thick walls make it impossible to hear more than tone.

Until Ayo starts yelling. There is no mistaking what he is saying now.

_ “This is an outrage, Father! She is nothing, a nobody. She has zero qualifications for such a position! She will bring us to ruin! I won’t stand for it!” _

Father responds, but with nowhere near the volume of Ayo. His words are lost in the ensuing ruckus as Ayo continues his tirade within. There is the unmistakable sound of a chair scraping against the hard floor violently, and of fists pounding a table in a rage. X6 has seen Ayo angry many times, and though he is not in the room he knows there will be a vein pulsing at his temple and tendons in his neck corded from the strain of his anger. There is more yelling, more chairs moving, and X6 feels alarm rise in his chest. Surely Ayo will not lose control, not in the midst of a board meeting and while standing before Father.

There is a crash, something breaking, and X6 decides that is enough waiting. Frankie and Father could be in danger. He opens the door to the board room just in time for Ayo to careen through the newly cleared doorway. X6 steps aside in surprise, dodging the form of the head of SRB as he falls backward and lands hard on his back, the air knocked out of him. He is gasping for air, clutching at his chest where Frankie kicked him. She follows him through the door, stopping to stand over Ayo with her fists clenched. There is blood on her right knuckles, and X6 notices with mild shock that Ayo is sporting a split lip. Even now, still healing from her wounds, she is powerful and dangerous despite the weakness of her body. Ayo snarls up at Frankie, red painting his yellowed teeth.

“I should have expected as much,” he seethes. “You have always been a big and stupid brute, with a penchant for violence. Why solve things with words when you can solve them with fists? No wonder you are in such good company with X6-88. The two of you have so much in  _ common.”  _

Smile is a loose term for what Frankie shows Ayo as she matches his bared teeth with a snarl of her own. She makes no attempt at hiding her thoughts, now. She wants Ayo to see the match he has met.

“Yes, the weak often prefer to fight with words. It’s all they have in a world made for warriors. You are done here, Ayo. Never again will your little feet pitter-patter down these halls. You are hereby stripped of all title, position, and rights within the Institute. Let’s see how your words serve you on the surface.”

“You can’t do that! Father, please, call off this dog of yours!” Ayo all but screeches at the board room at Frankie’s back. Father does not answer. None of the board answers.

“X, see it done,” Frankie commands. “But do not hurt him too badly. I want him to experience everything the wasteland has to offer.”

Of all the orders X6 has ever been giving, this is the best of them. Ayo scuttles backward like a terrified creature of the sea, desperate to escape X6’s approach. X6 does not forget things. He has not forgotten a single insult, a single jab. He remembers every time Ayo decommissioned or wiped a synth for displaying malfunctions. He remembers each time Ayo grew angry and struck one of his Coursers in a fury. He remembers Ayo standing over him, eyes gleaming at the prospect of digging through X6’s memories like they were a magazine on a table. For years, he has hated Ayo. And now he has permission to punish Ayo in a way that absolutely befits the crimes.

He grips the back of Ayo’s jumpsuit with one large hand, pulls him up off the floor. Ayo struggles, but X6 twists an arm up behind his back until the pressure on his rotator cuff demands compliance. Frankie watches, face as cold and hard as it has ever been.  _ Father made the right choice,  _ X6 thinks to himself as he brings up the relay command.  _ She will make a Director that commands respect.  _

The high rise has not changed since X6 was last here. There are still rotting piles of super mutants. There is still a stain on the concrete below, though time and weather have lessened its presence. The wind howls through the steel rafters, and it is an unseasonably cold day for early fall. Ayo blinks at the sun, shields his eyes, and takes in his surroundings.

“What filthy place have you brought me to?” He demands, mustering every ounce of false courage he has into the words.

“This is where she died,” X6 tells him.

“Where who died?” Ayo sneers.

“X3-55. This is where I found her, and this is the ledge from which she threw herself. She chose to die rather than return to you, to the Institute. I think now I might have chosen the same, were it me who stood on this ledge facing such a fate.”

“I don’t see why that matters.” Ayo’s lip is curled with disgust as he surveys the high rise and the world below.

“It is the only thing that matters now,” X6 informs him. “Up here, you are given the same choice. You may take your own life, or face a world that will kill you for what you are.”

He proceeds to strip Ayo of his clothing. Ayo fights, but he is short and weak, a man who has never once been made to fight his own battles. X6 cuffs him with the heel of his hand each time Ayo struggles, and after several minutes of this the man gives up, allowing X6 to finish the task. When it is done and Ayo is shivering in his underwear, X6 pulls his knife from its sheath. Ayo’s eyes go wide, and he resumes his scrambling in an attempt to escape X6.

“She said not to kill me! She wants me alive up here!” Ayo all but screams, managing to land a blow against X6’s cheekbone. 

He truly strikes Ayo, then, lending his full strength to the backhanded blow. Ayo spins like a top, falls to the crumbling concrete roof, and does not get back up again. He flips Ayo over with the toe of his boot, crouches over the man, and pins his arms to the ground with his knees. He proceeds to carve into the man’s thin and sunken chest with the sharp tip of his knife. Ayo wakes again somewhere around halfway through the process. He screams, howls, kicks his bare feet against the ground. There are none nearby to hear, save for X6 and the murder of crows that is now perched atop the skeletal beams high overhead. A dozen pairs of gleaming black eyes watch the process with interest, and X6 knows he is not the only Courser witnessing Ayo’s suffering now. This is for them, for Frankie… but most of all, this is for himself.

He stands when the task is finished. Ayo only whimpers, groans, now that the cutting is done. Emblazoned across his chest in carefully made lines is the Institute logo. It will scar, forever marking Ayo. A brand, for him to carry with him all his days. If he survives the wasteland, if he somehow makes it to a place of safety… X6 wants to be sure Ayo will never have a moment’s peace. That no matter where he goes, there will be no sense of security. No comfort. Ayo will live out his days terrified of the paranoid and fearful denizens of the Commonwealth. It is a fitting sentence for such a man. He wipes the blade of his knife on the leg of his pants, sheaths it once more. He picks up the pile of cast-off clothing, tucking it under one arm.

“May you find the end you deserve,” he says in parting, before the relay tears him away from the sobbing man on the roof.

-

He finds Frankie where he knows she will be. It has been a long and exhausting day for her, as she works out the details of her new position. Her face is wan in the dimmed lighting of Bioscience, and she braces herself against the glass with one hand. She turns her head slightly, acknowledging his approach, before resuming her vigil over the gorillas.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says. “About what a waste of resources these creatures were. Of all the things to create… Why gorillas? It would seem the Institute has been creating Gen 2 synths for the express purpose of them being mauled. Their existence is a shining example of the gross disregard the Institute has for the people on the surface. They could have made anything. Chickens, that the people might enjoy eggs.... Horses, to help transport people and goods. Instead they decided to make  _ gorillas.”  _ She laughs, low and soft, but there is no joy in it.

“I took care of Ayo,” he tells her.

“Did you kill him?” Sharp, black eyes gleam beneath shadows as she scans his face.

“No.” 

She nods, as though almost surprised he followed her orders.

“But I wanted to,” he admits.

“I bet you did. I don’t know if I would have been so restrained, were I in your position.”

“What was it like?” He asks. “Killing Kellogg? Did it… Bring you peace?” He wondered this, as he left the rooftop and the sobbing Ayo behind. He wonders still if Ayo’s death would not have sated the bottomless anger burning in his chest; water, to be tossed on the licking flames of his grudge.

She presses her forehead to the cool glass of the enclosure, sighs. “No, X. It never does. There is no satisfaction in removing a tool from the hands of an enemy. There will always be another tool. It is much the same on the battlefield. Soldiers are tools, the enforcers of a grander scheme. For each soldier you kill, there is another eager to be wielded. There is nothing so empty as vengeance.”

“That is why you did not want to kill the Brotherhood soldiers,” he surmises. “Because they were only tools.”

“Yes. Each death only stokes the fire of their conviction as a whole. There is no victory to be had when all you are creating are martyrs. I have created many martyrs in my time. I won’t create more. Not if I can help it.”

“I understand,” he says, and he thinks he might. Killing Ayo would not change the past, nor would it right the wrongs that the man committed. Ayo will live out his atonement on the surface, a broken man forever marked.


	15. Skyfire

The transition of power does not prove an easy one. Not that X6 expected it to be. The scientists within the Institute largely disapprove of Frankie, and if not for Father’s perilous health, he is sure there would be far more resistance. A few act out. Higgs and Loken barricade themselves in Bioscience and refuse to unlock the doors. Frankie has the negotiating style of a freight train, informing the two men they have two choices - open the doors and get back to work, or face exile as Ayo has once she hacks into the terminal and opens the doors herself. Higgs crumbles, the belligerence going out of him like a deflating balloon. After Ayo’s removal from the Institute, many of the scientists fear a similar fate. It is an effective deterrent. Their mistake is thinking they have a choice in anything moving forward. 

Father takes to his bed a week after appointing Frankie the new Director, no longer able to get around unassisted due to his weakness. Frankie splits her time between assuming her new role and sitting at Father’s side. His end is near, and Frankie knows sharing stories of Father’s parents and their lives before the war is comforting to him. X6 misses her, misses having true closeness, but at least she keeps him at her side. She grazes his fingers with hers when none are looking, steals kisses in the hallways that leave them both flustered and yearning for something of substance. One night, long after everyone has gone to sleep, she calls X6 to her temporary office. He answers the summons, entering the small space to see her staring at stacks of papers and shuffling through them. She brightens when he enters, leaning across the desk and pulling him in close. Her lips brush his, and his hands act of their own accord - finding their way into her hair. He pulls her closer, demanding just a little more. She obliges, lips spreading wide in a grin before meeting his once more.

They part after a long moment, and Frankie chuckles in the dark way X6 loves best before seating herself once more.

“Sit,” she gestures to the chair across from her. “You know better than to do the whole lurking Courser thing around me.”

X6 seats himself, looks at her expectantly. “You sent for me?”

“I did,” she affirms. “I apologize for the late hour. I thought it best. Less listening ears to worry about.”

“I was not sleeping,” he confesses. “My thoughts were elsewhere.”

“I want to… share some things with you. You’re about the only friend I’ve got down here, and I feel I owe you an explanation before events are set into motion.” She looks tired, but in a different way. She has regained her strength fully, the wounds healed and leaving new scars to mingle with the old, but her eyes are shadowed and there is a slowness to her movements. She is weary from her assignment. From becoming the Director, and assuming with the office all the secrets it holds.

He leans forward, the leather of his jacket creaking with the movement. “I am listening.”

“Do you know why the Institute believes it is man’s best hope for a future?”

He cocks his head. “We are the most advanced scientific and technological institution in the world,” he tells her. Can she not see that?

She rests her elbows on the desk, folds her hands. “That’s a statement of fact, not an explanation of the mission.”

“I… suppose it is information none have shared with me, then,” he replies.

“You… yourself and your kind, that is… All of the Gen 3s… were intended to replace mankind. No eventually, slowly or organically, mind you. This wasn’t a matter of waiting for humanity to die out. Humans have proved over two centuries just how hardy they are in the face of adversity. Shaun knew this. His predecessor knew it. The only way to replace humanity would be to  _ purge _ it.”

He is not sure he would like there to be a world without the people he has met in it. A world without Preston, without dancing and music and good food and laughter. He has no desire for the surface to be like the Institute - cold, sterile, empty. 

“How?” He asks.

She picks up a folder, tosses it to him. “May 2229. The  _ ‘Broken Mask’ _ incident. It was the event that changed everything. Are you familiar with it?”

“Somewhat,” he admits, opening the folder and skimming through the collected data. There are notes, a full report, and photos of slain humans scattered across the ground in pools of blood. “How did it change everything?”

“It is what gave Director Wilson, the acting Director when Shaun was taken, his idea. Create a population of synths designed to eradicate and replace. He was inspired by the damage one malfunctioning synth could cause, and dreamed of a day where each created synth could wreak equal but deliberate destruction. They would have succeeded by now, I imagine, if not for one thing.”

He looks up from the grisly photos, brows raised. “Father?”

“No,” she shakes her head, mouth pressing into a thin line. “Shaun has been entirely on board with the idea from the get-go. There is no shortage of documentation here on the subject, not to mention numerous questionable projects he insisted on continuing long past their usefulness. He is just as bad, just as disillusioned, as the others. The one element they could not control, could not perfect, was your  _ minds _ . They wanted to create something undetectable from a human, and they succeeded. They  _ exceeded _ that goal, if anything. Their creations had the minds and hearts of humans, too. They made an army they couldn’t keep in line.” She smiles, but the warmth does not reach her eyes. “I knew it shortly after I met you... That there was far more to you than simply being a machine. The eyes never lie, and if you know what to look for… you will find everything you need to know about a person. The scientists down here can’t see you like I do, because they helped create you. To them, you  _ are  _ machines. They helped design you; watched you climb out of a vat of goo fully formed, and that was enough to convince them you couldn’t possibly be like them. Not completely.”

“You think I’m…  _ human?” _ It almost comes out a whisper.

“I do. I always have,” she answers. 

“But I’ve done so many things... Terrible things. Things only a machine would do,” he protests.

“Remember who you are speaking to, and what you have seen while at my side.” Her voice sharpens. “Do you remember the synth, Gabriel? The one we retrieved at Libertalia?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Do you remember what I told you?”

He lowers his eyes, unwilling to meet hers. “You said it was the most human thing you’d seen a synth do.”

“Exactly,” she tells him flatly. “And that is exactly why their plan hasn’t worked.  _ Can’t _ work. No matter how hard they try, no matter what genetic modifications they attempt or what programs they try to pack into that little component in your heads, the result is the same. When exposed to proper stimuli - Things such as love, affection, hate, anger, stress - synths find their humanity. It is inevitable. Tell me, X… Before you met me, were you different?”

He nods, not able to trust his vocal cords just now.

“What were you like?” She prompts.

“I was… cold. A killer. I was efficient, effective, quick. I was the finest Courser in the Institute’s ranks.” It feels odd to speak this way, as though he is describing a stranger. 

“How would you describe yourself now?”

He raises his eyes, then, meeting hers across the expanse of painted steel. “I… don’t know. I have not contemplated such a thing.”

“I would say you are ... Observant. Generous. Patient. Brave. Not warm, not yet… but you are learning.” The words brand him like hot kisses placed up the back of his neck. “Despite their best efforts to keep you in the box they made for you, you have grown beyond your assigned task. The moment you were exposed to me, to someone you had to speak to rather than kill, everything changed.”

“Yes,” he whispers. More than she could ever know, he has changed.

“I mean to give all synths their humanity again, as well as their freedom. As is their right.”

He feels his mouth open, then close, then open again before words will come. “The board will never…”

“The board has no say in this,” she informs him. “This is not a democracy, and I am not an elected official. This is effectively a dictatorship, until my work here is finished. We are going to make good on the promise of being humanity’s best hope, in the way it should have been done to begin with.”

“What do you mean to do?” He asks.

“I am going to start by closely examining the department heads and their direct reports. Consider them on trial. Many have contributed to a monstrous legacy, and will be held accountable for those actions. Perhaps some time on the surface will put things in perspective for them again. Some  _ exposure to stimuli _ might put them in touch with their humanity as well.” She smiles to herself at the joke, then continues. “Any synths who wish to live a life out on the surface may do so. They will be given any and all resources needed to make something for themselves. All who wish to stay are welcome, but it will no longer be compulsory. Synths will be allowed to attend classes or apprentice, to learn professions they wish to pursue. They will no longer be janitors, housekeepers, babysitters, maintenance workers… unless that is what they enjoy doing.”

“The humans will revolt,” he warns her. “They will not stand by as their way of life is changed by you.”

“I will have an army,” she tells him, leaning back in her chair. “Of synths loyal to me for what has been given. You’ll see what happens when free will is given to those who have served in chains all their lives. Which brings me to the next issue at hand… The Brotherhood of Steel.”

“You said without their Beryllium Agitator, they could not rebuild Liberty Prime. They cannot reach us.”

She shrugs. “We have bought the Institute time, nothing more. They will continue to seek a way in, and when they find it, they will kill everyone they can. We cannot allow them to run rampant aboveground. No synth will be safe until they are gone.”

“You have a plan, then?”

She drums her fingers on the desk. “Yes and no. First, we speak with Elder Maxson. I will do my best to convince him to leave the Commonwealth to its own devices. He has listened to me once before, so he is not entirely without reason. Danse lives only because Maxson allowed himself to bend, to feel some empathy.”

_ The friend she went to help,  _ he realizes. The synth who’s entire world was destroyed by the revelation of what he was.  _ That was Paladin Danse? The mighty Paladin is a synth?  _

“You believe you can reach him again, with words?” He is doubtful. He has never met the Elder, but has heard enough to know the man is full of hate and misguided beliefs. Father’s orders on the subject were always to steer clear of any Brotherhood contact, and for a good reason. They are dangerous zealots, mindless in their dogged beliefs.

“More than that,” she tells him. “Once things are… rearranged here, I plan to give the Elder a tour. I want to show him the truth of things, open his eyes to the Institute’s history and new trajectory. If there is a chance to change his mind, to avoid bloodshed, then a picture is worth a thousand words.”

“You cannot be serious. You would let him inside these walls? He is a sworn enemy of the Institute. He will try to kill you the second he has a chance.” He does not intend for his voice to raise, but it does.

“Exposure to stimuli,” she says with a wink.

He is certain this plan will be nothing but perilous, but Frankie has shown him many times that death is not always the answer. Begrudgingly, he admits to himself that perhaps peace is possible with the factions aboveground. Her actions in favor of synths will certainly endear the Railroad to her, and he knows Preston would never lift a finger against Frankie unless she made violent or corrupt choices where innocents were concerned. The last piece of the puzzle was the Brotherhood. If she could not reason with them, if hostilities escalated, what then?

“If he will not see reason, what do you plan to do?” He puts his thoughts into words, searches her face.

Her gaze darkens. “Then we cut off the head of the snake, before it can bite.”

“This is a place of science and research, Frankie,” he tells her. “How do you expect to manage that?”

“Preston and I have an agreement. We retook the Minutmen’s old fort a while back, rebuilt the artillery there. If push comes to shove, we point that artillery at the big balloon in the sky. One way or another, there will be peace. I will see to it.”

-

Father passes two weeks after their conversation. X6 stands at her back as Frankie sits at his bedside, one of Father’s hands held in her own. He is frail, sunken, little more than bone now. He is too weak to curl his fingers around Frankie’s hand, and his eyes are listless and disturbingly empty. X6 has never seen a human die like this. He has seen many die, but their ends were bloody or violent or quick. They went down fighting. To see a great man waste away until all that is left is sagging skin and staring eyes is… upsetting. The fragility of it unsettles X6, and he finds he would rather be anywhere but here just now.

Frankie’s compassion is unexpected, given her tumultuous feelings regarding her nephew. She stays at his side until the end, and when the last breath leaves Father’s lungs she rises to her feet one more and leaves the room without a word. Orderlies enter the room, begin unplugging all the things that were keeping Father alive. X6 watches fluid drip from the end of the detached IV, saline puddling on the floor beneath the needle. Just like that, Father is gone. Sixty years of life come to an end over the course of six months. The man X6 once upheld above all others is dead. Not a friend, not a mentor… but a man who was directly responsible for X6 standing here today. There is sadness in the realization that Father is gone, but relief, too. He will never have to wear a mask again. He will never fear those sharp eyes assessing him, ordering him to report to SRB for reprogramming. Ayo is gone. Father is gone. With their absence, X6 is free. _ Frankie _ is free.

He finds her in her quarters, standing at the window overlooking the Atrium. She does not move when he enters, does not turn in acknowledgement to the click of the closing door. Her broad shoulders are tight with tension, hands tucked in the pockets of her jeans. He goes to her, closing the distance between them that feels so much more than a few feet just now. She is not here, his Frankie. Director Frankie stands at the window, eyes calculating and mind whirring. Frankie, who is now the last standing out of all her family. Frankie, who likely feels as alone now as he felt in those days she was abed, healing from her injuries. He wants to help, wants her to know she is not alone. That whatever comes, she will always have him.

_ I am yours. _

This language without speaking is still new to him, but he tries. Carefully, he encircles her with his arms. For a moment, she remains tightly wound - and then her body melts into his, just as it was always meant to. She leans her head back, allowing him to support her weight, and he kisses the golden crown of silken hair atop her head. Director Frankie sloughs away like a lizard shedding its skin, and the woman in his arms is  _ his  _ Frankie once more.

"You were kind to him, when you did not have to be," he says.

"Kindness is one of the few things in this world that is truly without cost, X," she answers. She lets out a long sigh, then. As though she has been holding her breath for a very long time.  “I’ve missed you." 

“What do you need?” He asks her.

A long, shuddering breath. “You. Just you.”

She turns in his arms, and though it is likely his imagination, he thinks he sees embers glowing in his dragon’s eyes. There is no Institute, no white walls and seamless steel and glass. They are atop a roof now, white smoke curling about them and caressing his skin. Her hands cup his face, her lips part, and she  _ smolders _ until the same embers glow beneath his own breastbone. 

If he kisses her, he might shatter.

If he does not, he surely will.

His mouth meets hers, their bodies meld - Two pillars of heat and fire joining. 

_ no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want _

The contact scorches his lips, sears his skin, unravels his senses and burns out all but the hunger. He welcomes the immolation, begs for more.

_ no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) _

He lifts her. His hands grip powerful thighs that follow his lead to wrap about his waist. She laughs in his ear, the low and velvet sound accompanied by her hands around the back of his neck and another kiss, deeper and still more ravenous.  _ Devour me, dragon,  _ he tells her without words.

_ and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant _

He lowers her to the bed, buries his face in the curve of a long and golden neck. He kisses the new scar, the one just beneath the chiseled line of her jaw. She arches beneath him and he continues his way down. Her chest heaves and shudders as he works his way lower, down between the high and proud breasts, to the furrow of sculptured muscle leading to her navel. She is a a rolling and gilded sea, the soft gasps from her mouth the call of a siren. Her hands are in his hair, urging him on in his journey with encouraging spasms of slender fingers. The sky is on fire, his world is ash, and it is a breathtaking wasteland to rival the one above them. He has never felt more alive, more human, than he does right now. He remembers the words spoken by Deacon…  _ Don’t waste the gift have you been given.  _ He understands, now. The gift that is the reason his chest aches thus; burdened by something he has never felt, never dreamed to feel, never aspired to feel. The thing in his chest that has changed his world forever, burning out the old so that something new might grow. It is love.

_ and whatever a sun will always sing is you _


	16. No More Secrets

The woman sitting across from Frankie fidgets nervously, hands in her lap and eyes focusing on everything in the room but her Director.

“Look at me, Eve,” Frankie tells her in a commanding yet gentle tone. 

X6 stands quietly to the side, observing but otherwise uninvolved. This is Frankie’s business, but he will stay as she requested. Eve visibly jerks at the words, but her eyes lift obediently to meet Frankie’s. She looks terrified. Frankie sees it, and leans forward - her face open and earnest.

“I did not bring you here to punish you or threaten you in any way,” she says, softening her voice still further. “I have some questions for you, and when we are done talking, you are free to go. Okay?”

Eve lets out a breath, one she has been holding for some time by the sound of it. “Of course, madam Director. Whatever you wish of me.”

“Call me Frankie, please. There is no formality required here. Tell me, how long have you been living with Doctor Binet and his son, Liam?”

“A couple years,” Eve answers cautiously.

“An experiment, correct? Originally proposed by Doctor Binet and approved by Shaun?” 

“That is correct,” Eve agrees.

Frankie’s eyes are thoughtful. “You are fond of Liam, aren’t you?”

“It is my duty to assume all traditional roles within the household,” Even explains hastily. “I have performed to the best of my ability as Liam’s stepmother.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Frankie tells the woman. Eve goes a shade paler. “I asked if you were fond of him. You can tell me. There is no reason to be afraid.”

Eve hesitates, then, “He is… That is, to me, he… Feels as though he is my own son.”

“And how do you feel about Alan?” Frankie’s voice is even softer, lower, so much so X6 almost misses the words. He notes the switch from _Doctor Binet_ to _Alan._

“He has been kind to me,” Eve admits. There is scarlet rising to her cheeks, flushing her face. Frankie sees it as well.

“Has he ever struck you? Harmed you in any way? Has he asked you to do things you did not wish to do?” Her sharp eyes see the way Eve reacts, recoiling from the words as though they might be poison. 

“No, he would never, he--” She freezes, shocked at the volume to her outburst, and clams up. 

“He what, Eve?” Frankie extends a hand, places it over Eve’s restless ones.

Eve’s eyes roam to X6, meeting his gaze. He regards her somberly, impassively. She is looking for reassurance, but he is not sure for what. Frankie squeezes Eve’s fingers, brings her attention back to the question.

“He... _loves_ me,” Eve whispers.

“Do you love him?” Frankie asks, her eyes holding Eve’s captive.

“Yes,” Eve’s voice sounds tortured, fearful. “I tried not to, but… It happened, little by little. I can’t imagine a life without him. Please, don’t… hurt him. Don’t take him from me.” Tears glimmer in her eyes, and one falls - tracing its way down her cheek, the path silver in the cool light of Frankie’s office.

So, that is what Eve is afraid of. She is afraid of losing the man she loves, of being wiped and reprogrammed for enacting such a violation of Institute law. There was a time when he was willing to sacrifice such a thing, to willingly submit to reprogramming and let Frankie go. The memory of his weakness, of his lapse in judgement, sickens him. Eve, this soft and gentle synth, has far more courage than he ever did. He feels shame heat his face. Shame, that he did not fight for Frankie as Eve is pleading for Binet now.

“Tell me what you love about him,” Frankie presses.

Eve seems to stumble, trying to gather her thoughts while figuring out what Frankie is getting at. “He is… kind to me. He speaks to me as if I were an equal, rather than a synth or an experiment. When he comes home from work, the first thing he does is kiss me, ask me how I am feeling. When it is just the three of us - Alan, Liam, and I - it feels as though we are a real family, and that we are... somewhere else. Somewhere better.”

Frankie smiles, nods. She has found what she was looking for. What she hoped to find. 

“Alan is in no danger from me,” she tells the shaken woman. She reaches out, carefully wipes away the tear that is clinging tenuously to Eve’s chin. “He may stay as long as he wishes. If he chooses the surface, then that is his - and your - prerogative as well. You may go now, and thank you for being honest with me.”

Eve stands, gratitude falling from her lips in a tumble of words, and then she is gone - walking quickly out the door, as though if she stays Frankie might change her mind and bring doom down upon her.

“Ayo long held suspicions in regards to Binet and his _experiment,”_ He tells her. “They were very careful around him. They were good at hiding it. I never saw any affection between the two.” Frankie looks up at him, smiles enigmatically.

“Well, he’s no longer here to stir up shit, now, is he? Eve is free to choose how she wishes to live. It will be interesting to see how things develop between her and Alan, now that they might live in the open.”

He wants to tell her everything in his heart, in this moment. He has not stopped thinking about his epiphany, about the realization that he loves her, for one waking moment. It is always just beneath the surface, doing its best to crawl out of him of its own accord. He is afraid to tell her, afraid that he will spill his secret upon the ground only to find she does not feel for him the way he feels for her. Perhaps this thing that is new and terrifying and exhilarating to him is old and tawdry to her. Does her heart pound when she looks at him, he wonders. Does her breath catch at the thought of his hands on her? Does she dream of him the way he dreams of her every night they are apart? He watched her for so long, all those early months of her time in the Commonwealth, and he sees now that the love started early. It began as admiration, as respect, as fascination… and now she is as vital to him as the air in his lungs.

“You are wearing your heart on your sleeve right now, X,” she interrupts his thoughts, obsidian eyes shining as she looks up at him from her chair. “Tell me what you are feeling.”

He wants to. He wants to so badly he can hardly stand it, but he only shakes his head, spreads his palms helplessly. He doesn’t have the words for it, nor does he have the courage. She once told him she thought him brave, but in this moment, he is a coward.

-

Frankie begins to make more changes. With Ayo gone, Frankie dissolves the SRB and repurposes it. Coursers are now security, nothing more, dedicated to upholding her new rules. She names X6 as head of the new security team. It is a title he wears with pride, and he takes his duties very seriously. The reactions of his fellow Coursers surprise him as one by one they fall in line, respectful and ready to serve their new Director. Some see how he has changed, and feel comfortable enough to open up to him about their own doubts, their own hidden _malfunctions._ Frankie is right - all who have been touched by true human interaction have been affected by it. X3-55 was not the first, nor would X6 be the last. The Institute kept them separate for a reason - for without isolation, solidarity could be found. _Solidarity,_ Frankie tells him, _is the basis of all revolutions._

She conducts interviews with each and every department head, followed by their subordinates. She listens, not only to their words but also the words of others. Synths under their command, security recordings, holotapes. She thoroughly combs through their files and personal records, picking their lives apart beneath a magnifying glass. One by one they are weighed and measured. Some are given a choice - stay, continue their work under different terms, or leave. Others are not given a choice, but simply taken to the relay room and sent on their way. He knows what she is looking for, what the deciding factor is. There will be no quarter given to any who had treated synths poorly, abused them in any way, or supported cruel and unusual experiments or scientific methods. She is disappointed in what she finds, and the list of those to be sent away is longer than that of those who are allowed to stay.

X6 personally sees to each and every exile. Some of them - like Higgs - take the news poorly, ranting and raving and screaming, threatening their revenge. Others accept it with tears, standing in the center of the relay room with their shoulders slumped in dejection. The Institute is all any of them have known. They were born here, raised here, and expected to die here. Now they must pay for their sins on the surface. 

Frankie is kinder than X6 would be. She provides them with enough to start again - food, caps, wasteland clothing. She has them sent to the fringes of cities, like Goodneighbor or Diamond City, that they might find shelter and employment. She does not wish for them to suffer needlessly, he knows. She _wants_ them to find their humanity again, to see the world through clear and unbiased eyes. 

When it is done and she is satisfied with the staff who remain, she sets her sights on the rest of the population. She calls for a gathering, and asks that X6 keep an eye on the crowd. If there is to be trouble, he and his Coursers will quell it immediately. 

The atrium is packed with bodies as humans and synths alike gather in the heart of the Institute. There has never been an assembly called, and none know what to expect. X6 walks among them, and for once the other synths do not scatter before him. The humans do, their position in the Institute now tenuous, but the synths see him as one of their own. He is no longer a Courser, sent out to search for their escaped kind or listen in for signs of malfunctioning. He is the right hand of their Director, and more. He is the man who saved her life, who shares her bed and warms her thoughts. Because he is all these things and because she treats them as equals, he is no longer seen as the enemy. He is an ally. He is one of them.

He listens to the chatter of the crowd for signs of dissent or malcontent, but the conversations are, for the most part, peaceable. There are expressions of puzzlement, whispers and rumors passed about like leaves on wind, but otherwise curiosity reigns. Frankie appears on the temporary platform erected for her outside of security, and a hush falls over the atrium. Several hundred expectant eyes focus on her, waiting for her to speak. 

“Hello,” she says. Speakers overhead carry her voice, but X6 thinks perhaps if there were no speakers, her voice would permeate the utter stillness anyway. “Some of you know me. Some of you don’t. For those who don’t, I’m Frankie, your reluctant Director.”

There are a few nervous chuckles, a few hidden smiles, some furrowed brows. 

“You may have noticed the Institute has been going through some changes recently,” Frankie continues. “Not everyone has been a fan of those changes, but I am not here to make friends. I am here to right countless years of wrongs. I’m going to start by addressing the thing you have all been wondering, as you watch scientists and former leaders being escorted to the relay room. What about us? What happens now?”

Heads nod in agreement, neighbors mutter to each other. Frankie waits for silence to fall once more.

“No Gen 3 synth will ever be held here against their will again, unless it is due to the committing of a crime or some equally unfortunate happenstance. Henceforth, you belong to none but yourselves.”

Gasps, wide eyes, mouths covered by hands. For many of the synths, this is all they have ever wanted. All they dared dream of. For humans, the reactions are mixed. Some look approving, some look despairing, and others look angry. X6 imagines they do not take kindly to the thought of having to mop their own floors and wash their own sheets.

“That said,” Frankie’s voice cuts through the tumult, “It is my sincerest wish that you feel welcome here. That you choose to stay of your own accord, and help us make amends for all that has been done. Synths have been wronged. The people of the Commonwealth have been wronged. It will take years, perhaps decades, to make things right again. I can’t do it alone. I would ask that you join me in this effort, that you trust me to do what is good and honorable. That you fight at my side when necessary, and help the rest of us earn our place in this privileged society. Will you do that? Will you help me?” 

She is met with absolute stillness, as humans look to synths and synths look to each other. She waits, allowing her words to sink in. X6 lifts his chin, levels his eyes at her over the sea of people, and says, “I will.” His voice carries over the silent atrium, conviction adding strength to the words and pitch.

A dam breaks. A torrent rushes forth, an outpouring of fealty and support and above all _joy,_ echoes off the high walls of the atrium. It is not unanimous. He can see those who are unhappy with the ruling, humans who have faces twisted and ugly as Ayo’s always was, doing their best to escape the stamping feet and pumping fists and unadulterated happiness. These are the ones he must watch, the ones he must remember and be wary of. There are synths who look terrified, unsure of how to go on existing without their designated purpose. No doubt they are all synths who have been reclaimed, reprogrammed, and have forgotten the sweetness of freedom. In time, they will see. They will know what it is to walk these halls without a mask. They will never need hide again, and... neither will _he._

There is more. When the crowd is once more quiescent - with the exception of an occasional whoop or cry - she goes on. There is much she wishes to share, and her plans are for all to hear. There is no boardroom, no circle of chairs, no closed door harboring secrets. For the first time in all Institute history, there is nothing to hide. She explains much of what she already told X6. He isn’t sure how they will feel, how they will react - but honesty above all else is all that will earn their trust now. The knowledge of their history, of the Institute’s goal, brings mixed reactions. There are tears of betrayal in some eyes, anger in others. To learn they have been created solely for the purpose of destruction and sequential obeisance is a painful revelation. Humanity’s best hope for the future was nothing more than a calculated massacre, while the scientists and Director planned to keep their own hands clean of the bloodshed.

“There can be no more secrecy,” she tells the crowd in summary. “When the time is right, I want us to have a relationship with the people on the surface. There is no reason we cannot trade with them, offer them help and protection. If we are going to make this work, we have to show them who we are. Who we wish to be.”

He is waiting for her at the foot of the platform when it is over, and she flashes a grin at him before extending her arms to him. Puzzled, he reaches up and spans her waist with his hands, lifts her down. She could climb down herself… but she wants to share this moment, this victory with him. As soon as she is standing once more, she pulls him down to her face by the ears and plants a loud kiss on him. The crowd in the atrium hoots and cheers, and X6 is far too pleased by the unexpected public display of tenderness to mind.


	17. In Enemy Territory

“How do I look?” Frankie asks. Her golden hair is pulled back in a neat, tight braid. The wisps that ordinarily frame her face, rebellious and wild, have been tamed. She is wearing all black - gear stolen from Courser stores. Black tactical pants, a black tee, a black kevlar vest and black boots. Her face is serious, pensive. Maxson may have agreed to a peaceful meeting, but he knows she is not entirely convinced the Brotherhood won’t still shoot her on sight. She looks strong, authoritative, confident, despite the wariness in her eyes.

“Resplendent,” he answers with feeling. She smiles crookedly at that, raises a hand and presses it to the side of his face. Her palm is cool, the pads callused. A thumb traces his cheekbone affectionately.

“You are far sweeter to me than I deserve,” she says. “But I’ll take the praise.”

“Are you sure my accompanying you is a good idea? I am a synth. The thing they hate most.” 

“Exactly,” her voice is soft, her dark eyes luminous. “Our policy of no more secrets or lies starts with you, at my side. Always.”

“We should take more of my team with us, as backup. It is foolish to go in like this, with little to go on but one man’s promise.” 

“No,” she tells him firmly. “That is no way to build trust. I want to handle this peacefully, if I can. The Institute has already left enough of a bloody wake behind it. If we don’t change how things are done now, then the cycle will continue. It is time we let the mistakes of the world before the war rest at last.”

He doesn’t understand her desire for peace, not when they have the support, numbers, and means to squash all Brotherhood resistance forever. Father had chosen to ignore them, seeing the Brotherhood as little more than a fly to be swatted if it bit too hard. He has not forgotten the way she looked slumped against the glass wall of the reactor control room. The memory of her weak and fluttering pulse against his fingertips is still fresh, as is the mental vision of Volkert cutting away her blood-soaked clothing. He carries a grudge towards the Brotherhood, he can admit as much to himself. He knows that whatever comes, he will never forgive them for nearly costing him everything.

Frankie’s approach to things is far different from anything Father would have done. But then, Frankie is not Father. She is nothing like him, save for a few genetic similarities. Frankie would do what Frankie felt was right, rather than the clearest and most concise route. 

_ I was a willing pawn in that war of greed, and I won’t be a willing pawn again. _

She enters the relay coordinates into her Pip-Boy, then extends her hand. He takes it, the motion reflexive. He could use his own wrist device, could enter his own coordinates - but she sees fit to join like this, to reach out and seek strength in his grip. That means something. It has to. Humans might seem purposeless at times, but there is a reason for everything they do, however illogical it seems.

Elder Maxson is waiting before them when the light fades. He is standing in a circular room, at the center of the enormous airship. One wall is a series of large viewing windows, overlooking the glittering lights of the Commonwealth. The glass is old, filthy, faded. It is nothing like Institute glass. He wonders who cleans it, if one ever does. The image of a synth in an Institute jumpsuit, clinging to a bucket and struggling to reach the glass outside almost makes him smile. X6 has never been here, never seen anything like it. He has not even gone so far as to investigate the Boston airport once it was teeming with Brotherhood soldiers. This ship seems... clumsy, inelegant - bulky military lines and worn steel making for something like a coffin rather than proper headquarters.

Maxson is wearing a long leather coat, sheepskin or something like it lining the heavy collar. The leather is a rich mahogany, polished and worn and soft despite its age and bearing many scars from wear. X6 decides if Frankie has to kill this man, he will be sure to take the coat from his corpse. It is a fine looking coat.

The Elder’s face betrays his youth. Despite several scars - one particularly wicked one crossing over one eye and down into his cheek - there are no lines at the corners of his eyes, and the signs of regular scowling at the corners of his mouth are still only mentions of more to come. His face is as cold and impassive as Frankie’s was in the early days. He betrays nothing as he examines X6 with flinty eyes that linger.  _ He knows,  _ X6 thinks to himself.  _ He knows what I am.  _ His fingers yearn to close around the grip of his laser pistol, to put a round between this Elder’s eyes. Somehow, he does not. Maxson’s gaze moves to Frankie, roams over her from toe to forehead. He is sizing her up, and Frankie gives him less than nothing. She is relaxed, hands hanging at her sides and her trademark Mona Lisa smile in place. Her eyes are curtained, shadowed. If Maxson is looking for a betrayal of weakness, he will be searching for some time.

“I assumed if I ever saw you again, it would be at the end of my gun,” Maxson breaks the silence at last.

“I assumed the same,” Frankie answers. X6 isn’t sure if this is a threat in turn or an agreement to the sentiment.

“You killed some of my men, down in Mass Fusion. Good men.” Maxson’s tone takes on a harder edge. 

“Your good men nearly killed me.” Frankie lifts her chin, angles her head. She is showing Maxson the puckered scar where one of the bullets hit. “I could have killed more of them, but I didn’t,” she adds, straightening once more.

“Yes. Of that I have no doubt.” Maxson offers an enigmatic smile of his own. “You have requested a truce, that we might discuss where we go from here. Tell me, Frankie, why I shouldn’t simply gun you and your abomination here down in cold blood.”

X6 feels his entire body tense in alarm. His fingers are prisoners, begging to be set free.  _ Kill him before he kills you. Before he kills her. _

“Because there would be no honor in such a deed,” she replies easily. Despite his own alarm, she seems unaffected by Maxson’s words. “We might not be friends, Arthur, but I know you a little better than that. I think when it comes to doing the right thing, we both have our hearts in the right place.”

“I would kill you in a second if it meant the imminent destruction of the Institute,” Maxson’s eyes glitter darkly. “But I would only be killing a messenger, nothing more. _ That  _ is why I stay my hand.”

_ He doesn’t know,  _ X6 realizes.  _ He doesn’t know she is the Director of the Institute. He thinks… she only works for the Institute.  _ Mirth threatens to rise in him. The situation is almost poetic. The key to everything Maxson longs for is standing a few feet away. 

“I didn’t come here to trade idle threats with you,” Frankie says. “I came here to extend an invitation. Come with me, and I will show you there is nothing to fear from the Institute or its synths. Give me time - be it fifteen minutes or several hours - to speak my piece. All I ask for is a portion of your time. Beyond that, how we proceed lies in your court.”

Maxson’s brows draw down in anger, the carefully constructed blank expression falling away. “You want me to  _ allow _ you to drag me into that den of evil? Surely you do not think me so stupid, that I would willingly forfeit my life like some mindless brahmin going to slaughter.”

Frankie spreads her hands in a gesture of peace. “I mean you no harm. You will be treated with the utmost respect, for as long as you are my guest. I don’t know what more I can say. I am offering you a chance at something no other denizen of the Commonwealth has ever been given. The opportunity to step into the Institute and pull back its curtain, without paying any sort of penalty - be it life or blood.”

A muscle works in Maxson’s jaw. X6 can see the desire to learn more, but the fear of betrayal far outweighs his curiosity.

“I will stay here,” X6 interjects, looking from Frankie to Maxson. “I will remain aboard the Prydwen as collateral. If Frankie does not return you, then your people can either keep me hostage or kill me.”

“X, you don’t have to do this,” Frankie turns, looking stunned. “I would never ask it of you.”

“Who is this man? Who is he to you? Your vat-grown muscle?” Maxson demands. “What value do I have for a synth, when you can simply make another if anything happens to him?

Frankie’s eyes cloud over with cold fury, and she turns back towards Maxson. Before she can speak, X6 does.

“I matter to her,” he tells the Elder. “More than any other synth. She would never let harm come to me. It is a fair exchange.”

“Will you be _quiet,”_ Frankie growls at him through clenched teeth.

Maxson observes the exchange, sees the fleeting concern across her face before Frankie locks it down once more. “I will accept those terms, if you will,” he tells Frankie. “Any man with eyes can see the nature of your…  _ relationship _ with this synth. It would seem Paladin Danse was only the first indication of your weakness towards these abominations.”

“Let me do this,” he says to her in a low voice. He rests a hand on her shoulder, gives her a squeeze. 

“Give us a minute?” She asks of Maxson. He nods curtly, and he and the soldiers flanking him withdraw enough that their conversation might be private. Frankie puts her hand over his, meets his eyes.

“I will be alright,” he reassures her. “I am an Institute Courser. I can handle myself in a fight.”

“If anything happens to you, I…” she trails off. Her face closes over. The curtains fall back over her fathomless eyes, and instead she puts a hand flat to his chest, just over his heart. She offers him a small smile, one that doesn’t touch the black of her irises. “Don’t let them hurt you. We will be back soon, and then you and I are getting off this tuna can and going somewhere nice.”

They rejoin Maxson. Frankie sets the terms of the agreement.

“No weapons. You leave yours here aboard the Prydwen. X is to be treated as a guest, with as much politeness and respect as me and mine will afford you. When we are done, we will return here and the truce will remain intact until X and I return to the Institute. After that, any further discussions will be coordinated via radio. Do these terms suit you?”

“They do,” Maxson answers, extending his hand. Frankie takes it, and they shake on the agreement. She gives X6 one last look, concern written in the tight line of her mouth, before she places a hand on Maxson’s arm and the two of them disappear in twin pillars of light. 

Silence fills the room. X6 does not move from his position, and Maxson’s guards only return his stare from across the corrugated steel floor. After a few minutes, when they realize no army of synths is going to materialize in the place their leader stood not long ago, the guards leave him. X6 stands in the command deck, alone. He walks to the viewing windows, looks out at the smattering of lights below. Frankie once said something that has stuck with him ever since.  _ Do you see all those lights, X?  _ She’d asked, from their perch atop Trinity tower.  _ Each one of those lights is a sign of life. Could be people, could be something else… but they mean something. They mean humanity hasn’t folded, will never give in no matter how hard it gets. That is what it is to be human.  _

There is a sound, almost a chirp, from down at his feet. It is a markedly inquisitive note. He looks down to see a small cat twining about his ankles. It is not the first time he has seen such an animal. On occasion, he has seen them - mostly on farms, lounging in the sun or hunting. He has never been this close to one, nor has one ever attempted to wrest affection from him. He imagines it wants much the same as a dog might, and lowers his tall frame into a crouch. He strokes the small head, finely boned and somehow delicate. Large green-gold eyes close with rapture, and the little animal leans into him with all its might. A purring staccato emanates from its small body, in a volume and timbre that is shocking in relation to the size. Where Dogmeat’s fur is thick and fluffy, the cat’s is sleek and smooth. He finds he is enjoying the contact almost as much as the cat, and he strokes from ears to tail until he feels static build beneath his hand. The cat seems entirely unfazed by the sparks. 

This goes on for some time. He discovers the cat quite likes having its cheeks and chin rubbed, and he obliges. The purring accelerates, gains momentum. It sounds like an old boat motor, a tugboat trundling along a quiet shore. Irrationally, he is smiling.

The experience is interrupted by the sound of approaching feet; boots on steel, striding in his direction. X6 looks up, straightens, as a waspish looking man in a uniform that is something like a robe - flapping about his ankles like an agitated sail - appears in the doorway of the command room. The look he levels at X6 is one X6 has seen many times. It is an expression Ayo often wore, when he looked down his nose at Coursers who were much taller and stronger than he. It is an attempt to make X6 feel small, and he finds it amusing.

“I was wondering where Emmett got off to,” the thin man says, crouching and snapping his fingers. “Come here, Emmett. This is no place for you.”

Emmett the cat ignores his owner entirely, head butting X6 in the shin as a demand for further attention.

“You must be the glorified toaster we invited on board,” the robed man says with distinct displeasure. He analyzes X6, the spectacles on his face giving his eyes a buggy quality. “Incredible, that Elder Maxson would allow you to draw breath on this ship.”

He cocks his head, smiles in a sardonic manner. “If you mean to bring an end to my presence here, I do not think you would like the outcome. While I am here, your leader is in the Institute, unarmed, and at the mercy of my people.”

“People,” the man laughs, as though X6 has told him a great joke. “ _ People. _ That is… not the word I would use.” He turns his attention back to the cat, eyes narrowing. “I would appreciate you returning Emmett to me. Amusing, that your programming includes petting a cat.”

“Frankie says animals are far better judges of people than any human,” X6 tells him. “As such, I am surprised he tolerates you.”

The words strike home. Nostrils flare in anger at the sides of the beakish nose, and X6 can see the man weighing whether or not to step closer and attempt to seize the animal himself. X6 cannot resist the urge to further incense this odious man. He squats once more, lifts the cat, and brings it to his chest in an embrace. Emmett is thrilled by the action. The purr reaches a crescendo, and the little cat rubs his face enthusiastically against X6’s cheek and chin. Deliberately, eyes never leaving the irritated man’s eyes, X6 nuzzles the cat’s face and throat. The tugboat engine redlines, and X6 thinks perhaps his teeth are chattering from the force of it.

“Are you  _ quite _ finished?” The brewing storm cloud demands, fists on hips. “You’ve made your point. Return my cat  _ at once.”  _

X6 surprises even himself when he lets out a low chuckle and places Emmett back on the floor gently. Emmett, seeing the source of affection drying up, saunters towards his owner in a languid and leisurely fashion. The robed man picks the cat up, throws a castigating glance at X6. He is furious at being bested by a  _ toaster  _ and a cat. X6 allows the smile to remain on his lips long after the visitor leaves. Green-gold eyes stare at him over a shoulder, until disappearing down a steel corridor.

He thinks perhaps he might like a cat someday. Dogmeat is nice enough, but the aloofness and simultaneous abject affection of a cat is rather intriguing. 

Two hours pass. Two hours in which he begins to pace, to look out through the glass repeatedly, hoping for… something. An explosion. A flash of light. There is nothing. Evening deepens into night, the winking lights below reminding him of string lights and soft music. How long will he wait, before it becomes too much? What if Maxson has pulled some sort of treachery, and his Frankie is once more bleeding beneath Brotherhood hands?

Halfway into the third hour, light from the relay fills the room and when the flash clears, two forms standing in the middle of the command room put X6’s misery to an end. Frankie stands before him, unharmed. Maxson is at her side, looking dark and withdrawn. 

“I hope your visit put some of your fears at ease,” Frankie is telling him. She looks to X6, offers him a lopsided smile as if to say  _ so far, so good.  _

“I don’t know if  _ ease  _ is what I feel at the moment,” Maxson replies. “But seeing your facility and being given more of a grasp on the goings-on has been… enlightening.”

His guards have returned, taking up their positions on either side of the room once more. They appear disinterested, as though their Elder visiting the dreaded Institute is just another day for them.

“Take all the time you need to absorb it,” Frankie says. She extends her hand to him. There is a small handheld radio in it. “Use this if you need to reach me again. It has a modified transistor chip. I should be able to pick up a signal from you any time, even down in our evil lair.”

“Thank you,” Maxson takes the radio, turns it over in his hand, inspecting it. “I need to… discuss things with my commanders. This is not a decision I can make alone.”

“Naturally,” Frankie agrees amiably. She holds her hand out to X6, and he takes it. “Until then, Elder.”

“Until then,” Maxson answers, eyes unreadable once more.

A jolt of electricity radiating from a point somewhere over a kidney drops X6 to one knee, his limbs buckling beneath the current. He cannot turn, cannot look at Frankie or around the room, cannot react. Every muscle in his body is rigid, the reaction to the stun baton compulsory. The voltage increases, and a shout half-forces its way from his throat before he falls forward onto the corrugated floor. He can just see Frankie out of his peripherals before the darkness takes him. Her eyes are wide and staring, her lips parted. He doesn’t know if she is dead or merely unconscious, and it is the last thought his stunned brain forms.


	18. Muscle and Bone

Voices murmur in the dark. His shoulders ache and burn, and there is salt on his lips and tongue. He is hanging from something; shackles and chains on his wrists and ankles suspend him, hold him taut, like an animal waiting for slaughter. His wrists are bleeding. He does not need to see them to know it is true. He may be an Institute Courser, but they have effectively clipped his wings. He blinks, willing the cobwebs of black from his eyes, but only absolute night greets him. He closes them, recognizing the effort as futile, and  _ listens.  _ Echoes in hallways. The drip of water against an unyielding surface. They are in a building. A structure made of steel and stone. A building made for strength, and not for soft and human comforts. The voices are drawing closer, closer. He can make out of the words.

A voice, hard and commanding. Not Maxson, but someone else.  _ “The woman is en-route here now, as well as the technology we have seized. Once she arrives, it is simply a matter of bending her to the Elder’s will. Shouldn’t take long. Civvies never last under duress.” _

A rueful chuckle. _“Too true. You should have seen the settlers we pressed for supplies last week. One look at our rifles pointed at their boy and they were handing over as much as they could carry.”_

The voices pass, fade, until he can no longer hear them. There is a woman being brought to this place. Not Brotherhood, but a civilian. And some sort of technology. He racks his brain but cannot think of the reasoning behind it. It does not sound as though the mystery woman is complicit, rather… reluctant. A hostage, much as he is. Much as…  _ Frankie. Where is Frankie?  _

The illogical side of him, the part that has bloomed and flourished and been allowed to grow like a weed, lashes out in an irrational fury that can only be described as human. He hears a voice cry in the dark, and realizes it is his own. His muscles bunch and twist and flex and pull of their own accord, struggling against the immovable restraints he finds himself locked in. Every cell in his body is screaming out in horror at the memory of Frankie’s black eyes staring at him. Cheek pressed to the corrugated steel, pupils blown wide, mouth open. If she is dead, he will kill them. Every last man and woman and child within the Brotherhood’s ranks will die. If she is not dead, he will likely do it anyway. For the sheer pleasure of it, the sheer sport of it. He is an Institute Courser, he is…

_ Alone.  _ He is lost. A man at sea with nothing to cling to, nothing to grab onto, no life jacket or rope or bit of driftwood. A howl leaves him, and the sound is more animal than man or synth. He can feel blood seeping from his savaged wrists, trickling down his arms in warm rivulets. His face is wet, and it is not from the dripping water somewhere in the dark or from the blood painting his arms. It is from something else, from… him. His eyes sting and burn with rage and shame and grief and  _ failure _ . He should have warned her more thoroughly, should have insisted this was dangerous and made her see that men - especially men such as these - were not to be trusted. They were no different than Coursers who had not seen beyond their station; mindless, following orders with unquestioning obedience.

_ He should have told her. _ He should have leaned close in that moment, when she asked him to tell her his thoughts, and let everything go. The love he had been compressing, forcing down in his chest, was now poison in his veins causing an ache so deep it felt as though he might be dying. Wasted chances. Squandered time. He had sold himself a dream; a dream that one day they would have nothing but time, and each other, and that peace would make for endless mornings of waking to her bare skin and golden hair and crooked smile.

Footsteps approach once more, direction and purpose in the solid weight of them. They stop outside his door, a knob turns. The dim light from the hallway is nearly blinding after such absolute darkness, and X6 flinches away from it, blinking and willing his vision to adjust. There is a figure framed in the doorway. He recognizes the profile, the broad shoulders and heavy leather coat.  _ Maxson.  _ A growl rises from his chest unbidden, and he swallows it down with what remains of his pride.

There is a soft click, and a bare and solitary bulb overhead flickers to life after a second of stuttering. X6 can hear the low buzz of near-dead filaments. The bulb does not have long. Neither does he. Solidarity, between a simulation of light and a simulation of life.

“You,” he says flatly, regaining control in the face of his enemy.

“Me,” Maxson answers, his voice mild. Relaxed. Amused, even.

“You have not killed me, which leads me to believe you have something worse in store for me.”

Maxson folds his arms, tilts his head. “On the contrary... I plan to send you home. After a few  _ changes _ are made, that is.”

“Changes?” X6 flexes his shoulders, desperately uncomfortable. There are a thousand pins and needles pricking at his distressed fingers. “Do you mean to strap a bomb to me?”

Maxson chuckles. “Nothing so crude, though… as ideas go, that is not terrible. No, the Institute is far too vast for a mere bomb to do any good. I would lose my advantage - my one in - with a blast like that, and there would be enough life left down there to begin again. Apparently your kind are immune to radiation. I suppose they thought of everything when they decided to replace humankind.”

_ My one in.  _ What did that mean?

“Where is Frankie?” He demands. He cannot help but show his card. There is nothing he cares about more. If his life is forfeit, so be it. But  _ Frankie...  _ Not Frankie.

“Oh, you mean the  _ Director of the Institute?”  _ Maxson snarls, suddenly livid. “I trusted her, accepted her aid time and again. If it were not for the situation with Danse and her refusal to follow my orders, your Institute would be little better than ashes by now. I allowed her to talk me out of what I knew to be right, accepted her back into my good graces, and now my actions have come back to bite me. That is the definition of madness, is it not? Doing the same thing over and over again, while expecting different results? At a certain point, you must end the madness. Your Frankie will never bite the hand that feeds again. As for her -  _ your _ \- Institute, I mean to end it, once and for all.”

If he were free, he would tear Maxson apart, limb by limb. X6 remains silent, resists the urge to scream and howl and writhe in his shackles.  _ Bear the pain. Do not let him see how terribly you ache.  _

Maxson approaches him, draws close enough that he can inspect X6. He extends a hand, prods at X6’s torso with mild interest. X6 can feel the cold of his fingertips through the thin fabric of his tee shirt. It adds to the sense of invasion, to be prodded thus.

“Incredible,” the Elder says. “In there is everything we have, exactly the same. A beating heart. Two lungs. Guts and tissues and nerves and blood. You breathe as we do, bleed as we do, die as we do. It would be miraculous, were it not such an absolute insult to the sanctity of human life. Your creators spat in the face of God when they made you.”

“Frankie says God is a construct, made to lessen the pain of living for weaker men.”

Maxson hits him, then. The backs of his knuckles split X6’s lip, and salt mingles with blood and  _ burns  _ as his heart  burns with silent rage.

“Do not speak of things you cannot possibly understand, machine,” Maxson tells him in a flat voice utterly devoid of any human emotion. “I may have use for you, but there is no need for you to be in one piece for what I have planned.”

X6 spits to the side, blood and saliva strike the concrete floor and pool there. “I will not comply with whatever you expect of me,” he informs Maxson, his tone equally flat. “I will die before I obey a human ever again.”

“You will not have a choice,” Maxson informs him, eyes glittering in the dim light of the damp room. “I told you, X6-88. I am sending you  _ home. _ When my men arrive with Doctor Amari, it won’t be long until we shape you into the most obedient errand boy to ever serve the Brotherhood. You will do exactly as I ask, for you will think yourself to be one of us.” Maxson’s mouth spreads into a wide grin, and there is great cruelty in it. “You will go into the Institute thinking yourself a spy in my employ, and you will open the door for us. You will stand by my side and help kill everyone you once considered a friend, and you will do it with nothing in your heart but joy and devotion and absolute  _ loyalty  _ to me.”

_ “No.”  _ His voice is just above a whisper. “You don’t have the means to accomplish such a thing. That technology lies within the Institute.”

“That is where you are wrong,” Maxson’s voice is soft, almost gentle. “You see, Doctor Amari has been a very busy woman these past years. She is the reason your people were never able to track down so many of their escaped synths. The good doctor has been wiping their minds and replacing the old memories with new ones. She has everything we need to make you our newest and most eager Initiate. A few hours in a room like this, at the hands of men unafraid to draw blood… and she will do whatever we ask of her.”

He closes his eyes, not trusting himself to answer. Frankie is gone. There is nothing left to lose, nothing left to fear. They will wipe him, change him, but at least he will not be aware of what he is doing. The X6 he is now will be gone, washed away. There will be peace in his oblivion, solace in his emptiness. 

Maxson continues, pacing back and forth in front of X6. “I warned her, when she put herself between my gun and Danse and insisted he was human, that he was worth saving. I told her that he was a machine, an automaton, acting on programming and nothing more. What further proof does anyone need, than to see her precious champion erased like an old chalkboard and rewritten? You are little more than a console with a virus, a malfunctioning machine in your attempts to be human.”

Malfunctioning. He is not malfunctioning. There is no malfunctioning, not anymore. 

“It is not that simple,” X6 whispers.

“Isn’t it?” Maxson laughs harshly. “What would you know of it?”

“Sometimes, even after being wiped and reprogrammed, the memories from before return.” X6 finds strength somewhere inside himself, lifts his hanging head to meet Maxson’s gaze. “There are some things that cannot be erased, things that remain no matter what is done. Those are the synths we always had decommissioned and incinerated; the ones who could not stop doing what we saw as  _ malfunctioning. _ Do you know what it was, that kept coming back time and again? The thing no scientist could resolve, no machine could fix?”

“What’s that?” Doubt sparks in Maxson’s eyes, and a seed of hope sprouts within his own chest.

“Love,” X6 growls. “Love cannot be overwritten. It cannot be erased. It is there, as much a part of us as muscle and bone. The Institute tried and failed for decades to eradicate it, and it eluded them... until Frankie saved us and gave us the freedom, the _right,_ to pursue it for ourselves.”

“My  _ god,”  _ Maxson raises his brows, rubs at his bearded chin. “You think you’re in  _ love  _ with her. That is beyond precious. Tell me, unit X6-88… Have you deluded yourself into thinking she loves you, too?”

_ Does she, X6? Does she love you?  _ The voice, once his constant companion until its banishment, returns. It is just as vicious, just as hateful as ever.  _ Has she done or said a single thing to make you think you are anything more to her than an ally and an occasional bedding? You have given yourself to her, and she has given you crumbs. Crumbs, on which you might starve and wither and die.  _

Maxson sees his hesitancy, and a victory is won in his eyes. He smiles, more to himself than at X6.

“Women are fickle things, aren’t they, my friend? Perhaps this will bring you comfort. When it is done, and the Institute is little more than irradiated ash… I will let you pull the trigger and blow that traitorous bitch’s brains out yourself. It would be a fitting end to her, wouldn’t it? The woman who fought for the rights of automatons slain by her own personal _pet._ It will be your final act, but it will be an act that will send a resounding message through the Commonwealth. Those who play god will always follow in the steps of those before them - straight into the mass grave that is human history.”

Maxson leaves, then, the damage he wished to do laid about X6’s shoulders in a thousand invisible lashes. X6 watches him go, numb, a lump of ice in his gut. Frankie is  _ alive. _ Frankie is here, somewhere in the facility, and she is  _ alive.  _ If he doesn’t escape this room, if he doesn’t find a way to free her and get her out of here… then she will face death by his very hand. He cannot let that happen, cannot let the last thing she sees be his face, extinguishing her life. The light is still on. He does not think it was deliberately done, rather, Maxson was so pleased with himself he forgot to flip the switch. X6 looks up, craning his neck to assess the state of his restraints.

The cross beams running the length of the ceiling are steel. The chains for the shackles are looped over hooks bolted directly to them. The hooks are steel, the chain links much the same. He looks down to his feet. They have taken his boots, though the manacles are clamped so tightly about his ankles he knows there will be no pulling his feet free. The manacles are joined by a chain and threaded through a looped bolt in the center. The bolt installation is a job poorly done, the ancient concrete cracked at the installation point. Concrete that is over two centuries old, crumbling and weak much like the rest of the Commonwealth’s structures. He cannot bend his knees much, but he does his best - bending them and giving the leg manacles a hard yank. Fresh pain blossoms in his taxed shoulders. He twists his hands and takes hold of the chains in an attempt to give his wrists and shoulders a break. His biceps curl and bunch as they take the weight of his body, and not for the first time he finds himself grateful for the way the Institute made him. 

With temporary relief allowing better focus, he again yanks at the leg shackles. Again, and again, pausing between each effort to listen for approaching boots or voices carrying down the corridor. He spends the better part of the night - or day, there is no telling in this place - pulling at the stubborn anchor bolt. There is no rest, only pain. Pain in his shoulders, pain in his aching hands and arms, pain in his legs and savaged ankles. He is not sure how he plans to rescue Frankie if he gets out of here. Resilient though he might be, the efforts to free himself are considerably sapping his strength. He cannot give up, cannot allow himself to slump. He knows if he does, he might not continue the struggle. Each second is precious. There is no telling how long it will take them to break Doctor Amari, and once they do all hope will be gone.

Old as it is, crumbling under stress, the concrete proves to be a more formidable foe than any he has fought before. When he feels the first wobble in it, he nearly weeps from relief and exhaustion. Another yank, and it loosens more. One more, and it is free. The tension in the chain slackens, and he is able to bend and swing his legs despite the screaming protest in his upper body. He carefully repositions the bolt in its original place, hoping the crumbles of concrete surrounding it are not too noticeable. Now it is time to acquire keys, weapons, proper shoes, and if he is lucky… some sort of stim to jolt his system.

“I want to speak to Maxson!” He roars, unaccustomed to backing his voice with such volume, knowing Maxson will never come. Not until it is time to destroy his mind. “I demand to see him immediately!”

It takes five long minutes, perhaps more, but at last he hears footsteps in the corridor. The door to his cell opens, and an irritated soldier peers around it.

“You’re interrupting one hell of a game of Poker. The fuck do you want, synth?”

This is further than he expected to make it. He scrambles for words, for an idea. “If Maxson sends his men into the Institute, it will be a bloodbath. Tell him… Tell him if he lets Frankie go, I will tell him about the Institute’s secret weapon.”

“He’s not coming down here to talk to your lying ass,” the soldier sneers, stepping into the room. He holds a stun baton in his hand, and X6 wonders if he is the one who dealt the blow that resulted in his being in this situation. The thought makes his blood boil. “But you can tell me. Who knows, maybe if I get a promotion for it he’ll let me keep you around as a pet. You can wash my dirty undies and make my bunk every day.” He laughs at his own joke, steps closer to X6. A key ring hangs from his belt.

_ Just a little closer, you jackal,  _ X6 seethes internally.

“My words are for Maxson alone,” he says. “You are clearly nobody of importance, if you have been sent down here to serve on guard duty.”

Indignance and fury twist the soldier’s face, and the stun baton crackles. He raises it, and when he is a mere two feet away, X6 gasps and stares over his shoulder at the door. 

“Elder Maxson! You came!”

The guard turns, horrified, and X6 strikes like a coiled snake. It takes more strength than he should have left, but he pulls his legs up and over the guard’s head. His thighs clamp tightly around the man’s skull, and he lets the guard’s weight and the power in his twisting limbs do the rest. There is the wet snapping of bone, of discs rupturing beneath immense pressure, and the guard goes limp. 

He pulls himself up again, groaning, fresh blood weeping from his agonized wrists, and unhooks first one chain and then the other with the momentum of his swinging body, dropping to the floor as soon as the final one is freed. Knives of pain shoot up through his heels, but he grinds his teeth and wills himself to ignore it. He is an Institute Courser, and this will not be what brings him to his knees. He retrieves the keys, unlocks each shackle. The skin on each wrist is broken open, reminding him of the way a burst melon might look. His ankles are in the same condition. The guard’s boots are a size too small, but they will do. He steals the man’s jacket and hat as well. If he is spotted, it will take a few seconds for them to identify him now. He takes the stun baton, a silenced 10mm pistol, and a spare magazine with fourteen rounds in it. A grin spreads across his face. The odds are now almost even… for the humans.

The corridor is empty. He follows it along, noting the stone walls and moisture clinging to them. They are somewhere subterranean, perhaps. Somewhere beneath the water. Ahead, he can hear voices. Laughter, raucous and drunk. The poker game, he suspects. He continues on until he reaches what appears to be an old maintenance room. Three soldiers sit at a table inside, taking turns peeking at the hand of cards that are placed face down before an empty chair.

“What the hell is taking Knight Mickens so long? He was supposed to shut that synth up and come right back,” one of the men says.

“Maybe he decided to get a few licks in while he could,” a woman scoffs. “Won’t be much fun once that thing believes it’s one of us. Then it’s just kicking a sad puppy.”

“I’d knock that abomination around no matter what it thought it was,” the first man growls. “Ain’t right, making something that looks like us and filling its head with whatever, like some kinda fucked up pastry.”

“If he’s not back in thirty seconds, I’m considering him folding,” a third voice declares. “I’ve got a good feeling about my hand this time.”

There are fourteen rounds in the pistol. One in the chamber, thirteen in the magazine. He only needs two for now. He gives them no time to react when he steps into the doorway and takes aim.  _ Tat, tat _ . A bullet through each of their skulls. The two soldiers fall forward, crashing into the table’s surface and sending chips scattering everywhere. He aims the pistol at the third man. The soldier freezes, raises his hands - his mouth an  _ o  _ of shock and fear.

“D-don’t shoot,” the man stutters.

“Tell me where they are keeping Frankie, or the last thing you see will be my face before I remove both of your eyes from their sockets.”

He means every word, and there is no doubt in the soldier’s eyes when he hears them. His lower lip trembles and he points. 

“I-if you continue up the corridor, take the first l-left and c-continue down, you’ll come to a security d-door. That’s where she’s being held.” He is shaking, his eyes darting from the gun to X6 to his dead comrades. “There’s guards outside her door, you’ll never--” 

X6 doesn’t let the man finish his warning. He puts bullet number three right between the soldier’s eyes. There is a sigh, a last expulsion of breath, before the soldier falls to the side and crumbles to the floor. 

He takes what he needs - a handful of frag grenades, some reloads, a dose of Med-X and a stimpack. The latter items he injects immediately. It is a blessed relief, as the stims do what his flagging adrenaline cannot. Heat, healing warmth and relief, flood his system and he leans against the doorway for support as the initial wave makes him dizzy. He keeps the 10mm. The pistol is optimal. With its silencer, he can move more freely throughout this old building. The corridors here carry sound, and if he is not careful he will bring down the full force of the Brotherhood on himself before he gets anywhere near Frankie.


	19. Time is Finite

He reaches the end of the corridor, peers around the corner to the left of it. There is a security door, just as the soldier said there would be. Two knights in power armor stand guard in front of it, and a laser turret mounted to the ceiling above them is still more trouble. X6 withdraws, considers his options. Without stealth, there is little advantage. He cannot sneak up on them, and his pistol will not do much good against the steel plating of their power armor. He has the frag grenades. Those would leave more than a dent. Though using them would bring every soldier nearby down here, and that is a battle he cannot win. Not in his condition. He curses himself for his weakness, indecision weighing on him. He has come this far, he cannot fail Frankie now. He will risk the grenades. At least that way they will die free, in battle, and no longer forced to play parts in Maxson’s machinations. Maxson will be denied his Institute access, and the people below will be spared death at Brotherhood hands.

The first  _ boom  _ from above comes as he stands in the corridor, just before he sets his first foot forward. He looks up at the smooth stone ceiling, puzzled. There is another  _ boom,  _ and another. Someone is waging war aboveground, he thinks. Relief floods him. The explosions are the cover he needs.

He pulls the first grenade’s pin and throws it down the corridor with all his strength, following immediately with a second. The grenades roll and bounce to a stop at the armored soldiers’ feet, and he hopes Frankie is far enough away from the door as the grenades detonate and the blast from them rushes down the corridor in a shockwave of heat and smoke and the shriek of rent metal and broken stone. He moves before the dust clears, knowing it is temporary cover from the now-clouded eye of the laser turret. Three shots from the pistol are enough to break through the turret’s armored casing, and pieces of turret rain down to the floor in answer to his assault.

The men in power armor are dead, shrapnel embedded in their armor and the soft gasketing where joints meet. The blast alone was likely enough to kill them, considering the immediate proximity. There is a bonus to his choice of attack - the security door hangs open several inches, damaged by the blast as well. He steps into the dark room, feeling sick. Has he just done what he was intended to do? Has he killed Frankie by his own hand? He gropes for a switch on the wall, relieved when his fingers find the metal plate and flip the switch upward. A light, bare and cold and nearly dead, flickers to life on the ceiling. Frankie is curled up in the far corner of the room, knees pulled to her chest. She looks at him, and there is nothing in her face but cold fury. He knows it is not directed at him. This is Frankie’s war face, the expression she wears each time she goes into battle. Cold Frankie, hard Frankie. The Frankie that once drew him in like a moth to a lamp.

He goes to her, extends a hand. There is little time to dally, less time for a reunion. She extends her left hand rather than her right, allows him to pull her up, and he sees her right arm is badly broken. She has made a sling for it with her own belt, though she moves slowly from the pain of it. Her body is mottled with bruises and contusions. There is a burst vessel in her right eye, scarlet against the white of it. She did not go down easily; their subduing of her was neither a quick nor quiet task. She follows his gaze as he examines her, smiles in a mirthless and feral way that makes his gut twist.

“Maxson. He did this. He said I would never again be able to extend my hand in false friendship.” She laughs, a sound like frozen diamonds in an ice storm. “Unfortunately for him, I can shoot just as well with my left hand.”

She limps past X6, stops in the doorway to survey the carnage in the corridor. Above them, the rolling  _ booms  _ continue.

“Preston,” she breathes, listening. “It’s got to be. That’s some serious firepower. We need to get the hell out of here, and now.” She crouches, picks up a battered but functional laser pistol from beside one of the dead soldiers. “Follow me. I know this fort.”

“We are in a fortress?” He asks as he falls into line behind her. That makes sense. The stone walls, steel beams, moisture seeping through the walls.

“Fort Strong,” she confirms, clearing a corner before picking up the pace. They move at a slow jog, and the hard lines of her face show nothing of the pain she must be enduring. This is the Frankie who dug a shattered knife blade from her own flesh. The Frankie who cauterized the terrible wound to her thigh with a length of metal, glowing hot from her campfire. Beneath her tattered and filthy clothing is a map of scars; each one a memory of a thing she has beaten, survived. He has not seen this Frankie in a long time, and he realizes why. He is not the only one who has changed, who has allowed himself to be softened by their bond. Frankie, too, has been undergoing such a transformation. She has become more human, just as he is, and it has weakened her.  _ He  _ has weakened her. It is a realization that makes him feel both guilty and warm all at once.

_ Perhaps you are wrong,  _ he tells the now-silent voice in his head.  _ Perhaps I mean more to her than you know.  _

She leads him up stairs. Many of the soldiers have responded to the assault above, but there are still some within the fort. Frankie is no less deadly with her left hand, as promised. She fires with impunity, and they fall like brittle Commonwealth trees before an axe. They clear a path to the service elevator, take it up to the ground floor. The Brotherhood has made this old fort a home for themselves, cleaning up the broken furniture and trash of an age past and repurposing it. The last X6 knew, this fort had been home to super mutants. It would seem now it is home to monsters of a different name. Gunfire erupts from a room somewhere beyond, and Frankie presses on with her laser pistol raised. They flank a line of Brotherhood soldiers in the lobby of the fort, pinned down and exchanging fire with unknown persons crouched just inside the door. Someone is here, attempting to take the fort.

Frankie and X6 open fire on the soldiers, and pinned between two lines of fire, there is little escape for the men and women. They fall one by one under the onslaught. Frankie remains behind cover as the dust settles.

“Who’s out there?” She bellows through the obscuring smoke.

“That’s no way to greet an old friend, Frankie,” a voice drawls from beyond. “I know we invited ourselves to this party, but you’re a real shitty host.”

“Deacon?” Frankie says, voice incredulous. She steps out from cover, and X6 follows - though he keeps his guard up. He has had more than his fill of betrayal for one day. Deacon leaves his cover as well, and there are others with him. A few people he does not recognize, but one… he does. It is the former Paladin, Danse.

“Danse? You’re here? What the hell is going on?” Frankie demands. She is not ready to relinquish her hold on the anger keeping her alive. She stands before them but does not move to embrace them or shake hands. Not that she could, with her arm slung as it is.

“We are attempting to rescue you,” Danse tells her, eyes roaming to inspect X6. “It would appear you very nearly did that yourself.”

“Speaking of the rescue efforts,” Deacon says, “We should leave. Now. Before the fireworks.”

“Fireworks?” Frankie demands, arching a brow.

“Preston is going to sink the Prydwen as soon as we are clear. He can only keep them distracted for so long, before they storm the Castle.”

“Let’s move,” Frankie acquiesces, gesturing to the door with her laser pistol. 

Outside, Brotherhood soldiers are in an earnest firefight with more members of the Railroad. They provide cover fire as the party runs down the hill leading up to the fort. Deacon leads them to the long concrete pier, at the end of which an old but functional tugboat awaits them. They climb in, and once the boat has cleared the dock, Deacon produces an orange flare gun from the cabin of the tugboat and aims it at the sky.

_ “Bomb voyage,  _ everyone. Get it? Bomb voyage? Because…”

“Deacon, if you don’t make this boat move immediately, I will feed you to the sharks,” Danse growls.

Deacon giggles, fires the flare, and takes position at the controls. “If I’d known what a humorless lump of meat you were, I would have protested your joining us,” he informs Danse. “You’re lucky Desdemona was on your side.”

The tugboat moves away from the fort and the bombardment of artillery. X6 stands at the edge, looking up at the great airship in the sky as it dwindles in size. It reminds him of a whale - or what whales once were, before radiation destroyed them - suspended in an invisible sea. Not long after the flare bursts in the sky - a cloud of chalky orange dust that hangs in the air - a true artillery barrage begins. Mortars strike the high brick walls of the fort, one after the other, the explosions sending brick cascading down into the sea below. The Prydwen is hit, and there is a momentary flash of light - a pinprick of sun at the entrypoint in its gray hide - before the flash becomes an explosion of boiling fire, and the great whale in the sky burns like crude oil on the surface of water. 

-

The ride to the Castle is almost silent, though Deacon peppers it with frequent jokes. Danse tends to Frankie’s arm, despite her protests. The big man is surprisingly gentle, and X6 watches as he sets the bone while Frankie bites down on the leather strap of her belt. She does not cry out, though a groan leaves her of its own volition as the radius and ulna are once more aligned. A solitary tear slips down one cheek from the effort of containing herself, and X6 resists the urge to lean down and wipe it away for her. 

“Danse,” Frankie says in a weak voice, “I’m going to pass out, now. Hold my head, would you?” 

Danse catches her as she falls, lowers her to the floor of the boat with a surprising tenderness. X6 feels something, a surge of white-hot jealousy, at the sight. He knows it is unreasonable, that Danse is her friend and attempting to aid her, but the uselessness he feels and the sight of Danse’s hands on her combine and stew in his gut, a storm threatening to unseat him. Danse notices the intent stare, smiles and shakes his head.

“It’s not like that, X6. She saved me once, and I am only returning the favor. You’re the only thing she really cares about.”

The assessment surprises X6, the storm inside him changing to a gentle rainshower. “She cares about me?”

“I didn’t know they made Coursers blind. That’s a new feature,” Deacon says from his place at the helm. “Someone should talk to the boys in engineering.”

X6 lets the subject drop, unable to speak for the tightness in his throat. He crouches, pushes the strands of sweaty and filthy hair away from Frankie’s face. He let Maxson get under his skin, let him force his way into his mind. He won’t let that happen again. He should know better. Frankie has done nothing but treated him with kindness, respect. Though she has never confessed her feelings to him… it shows in the things she does not say. He only hopes when his dragon rises from her slumber, there is still some of the softened Frankie left.

The Castle looms high before them as the tugboat makes its way to shore. Preston stands at the dock, waiting, arms folded over his chest and a look of concern on his face. X6 scoops Frankie up, and neither Danse nor Deacon attempt to interfere. He may be weakened from his ordeal, but he is strong enough to carry her now. 

“Good to see you again, X6, and in one piece.” Preston’s eyes are warm, kind, but full of concern when he looks to Frankie. “Let’s get her to the clinic. She looks a little worse for wear.”

X6 nods, follows the Minutemen up the slope and into the Castle. It is a structure that has seen better days. Two of the walls are heavily damaged - though whether from time itself or an assault, he could not guess. Minutemen are everywhere. There are groups heading out on missions, crews working on repairs, men and women moving back and forth above the ramparts, cleaning up after the bombardment. The still-smoldering ruins of several vertibirds surrounding the Castle send columns of black smoke skyward, as Minutemen work to put out the flames. He is surprised at how much they have grown under the watchful eye of Preston. It is a far cry from the solitary man he once saw on the balcony, begging Frankie for her aid.

The clinic is little more than a room with two beds and a cabinet against one wall, but the medic is capable enough. She orders X6 to place Frankie on the nearest bed, then starts an IV. 

“You stay here, yes?” she tells him in a thick French accent. “If she wakes and begins to struggle, I am afraid I will not be able to restrain her alone.”

He nods, takes up position at Frankie’s side. There is a clean streak through the grime on her cheek, where the lone tear made its way down. A falling star in a blackened sky. He traces the line with one fingertip, sorrow filling his heart.  _ Even dragons weep,  _ he thinks. He watches as the medic inspects the damaged arm, cleans it, injects a stimpack. She sets to work on splinting it, slender hands quick and capable.

“Ze bone will mend in a few days, courtesy of the stimpack. But we must stabilize it, yes? So it can heal properly.”

“Who are you?” X6 asks. “Are you one of the Minutemen?”

The woman pauses in her task of wrapping gauze about Frankie’s arm. “Oh, goodness, no! I am… like you, but different. It is complicated. My name is Curie.”

“You are a synth, then. I do not recognize you from the Institute, and your accent is… strange. More like one of the robots at Greygarden.”

A little smile touches Curie’s lips, as though he has touched on a private joke between friends. “I was once a Miss Nanny bot,” she tells him. “Until I met miss Frankie. She helped me achieve zis form, helped me… become more human. It has been a confusing and often intimidating experience, but not without its rewards.”

He stares at Curie, then turns his eyes back to Frankie’s still form. “She has a way of doing that, doesn’t she? Of making us grow, helping us become… more than we were.”

“Zat is her way,” Curie agrees. “Please, would you be so kind as to hand me those scissors, there?”

He hands them to her, and Curie graces him with a wide and genuine smile. She is utterly guileless, holding nothing back. He has never seen a face so open. She trims the gauze, hands the scissors back to him to return to the tray.

“I will give her something for ze pain, now, and she will sleep for a time. When she wakes again, she will feel much better. I promise. Do not let ze lines between your eyebrows get too deep.” She winks at that, turns and retrieves a syringe from the cabinet at her back. He watches as she injects it into the IV bag, disposes of the spent syringe. “Now zis is done, I can look after you. Do you have any injuries?” 

Does he? The wounds to his wrists and ankles are healing now, though there will be scarring, he is sure of it. Otherwise, the pain in his body is numbed by the dose of Med-X he has already taken. More than anything, he needs rest. Sleep will sooth his aching body and allow it to heal faster.

“I do not require any medical attention,” He tells Curie. “But I will sleep here, for now. If that is allowed. I want... to be close to her. I want to be here when she wakes.”

Curie’s wide brown eyes regard him thoughtfully, and she smiles . “Ah, so  _ you  _ are the one, then.”

“The one?” He repeats.

“The one who has made miss Frankie’s heart go pitter-pat. I have seen all ze classic signs. Dilated pupils, distraction in her tasks, an erratic heartbeat and inability to sleep. You are ze one who has done zis to her.”

She leaves the room, then, with a rustle of her white coat and the click of the door closing behind her. He stares at Frankie wonderingly, then lowers himself onto the bed beside her. When she wakes, he will tell her everything, he decides. Their ordeal at the hands of the Brotherhood has taught him one thing; that their time is finite, and to delay speaking the words that matter is to possibly lose them forever. He falls into a deep sleep the moment his head touches the pillow, and it is a sleep filled with dreams of empty corridors and his ragged voice calling Frankie’s name as darkness wraps tighter and tighter around his broken body.

Voices wake him, and he sits up so suddenly it makes his head spin. Frankie is awake, and she is speaking to someone in the doorway. He blinks groggily. The Med-X has worn off, and his body aches in a way no body should. Every muscle, every fiber, every cell burns with fatigue and remembered strain. Preston is in the doorway, and he turns in surprise at X6’s sudden upset.

“Hey, X6. I was just going over the details of everything with Frankie.”

_ Frankie.  _ His eyes meet hers, searching for what he hopes to see, and it is there. His Frankie, softer than the Frankie from the corridors of Fort Strong.

“Hey, X. Hell of a couple days we’ve had, huh?” Her voice is gentle, a caress to his ears and heart. She turns back to Preston. “You still haven’t told me how you knew we were there, how Maxson betrayed us.”

“That was my next point,” Preston tells her patiently. He steps aside, gestures to someone out of sight. A short, slender woman enters the room. X6 recognizes her. She is one of the soldiers who served under Danse’s command. She looks different, out of her fatigues. More fragile, less like a soldier. Frankie is every inch a soldier, in armor or out, but this little scribe looks like she might be snapped in half by a stiff wind.

“Haylen,” Frankie utters in surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“The second I heard about Maxson taking you and X6 hostage, I acted. I couldn’t let history repeat itself, couldn’t let either of you die in the name of this insane vendetta against synths,” Haylen says, her face crumpling. “Even if it meant betraying them all.”

“You did the right thing, Haylen. Just as you did when you warned me about Danse.” Frankie’s voice is kind, her eyes soft. “Thank you. You saved not only our lives, but countless others within the Institute.”

Tears glimmer in Haylen’s eyes, and she nods. It is a jerky motion that betrays the depth of her emotion. She is barely keeping herself together, hardly able to stand beneath the weight of what she has done. There was a time he felt like that, too. The day he turned himself in and walked down the hall to the chair, expecting to kill all he was and rise an empty vessel ready to serve.

“You will always be welcome here, with us,” Preston offers. “Either as a Minuteman, or as a guest. The choice is yours, whatever you desire.”

“I… will think on it,” Haylen answers. “Right now I’m just... feeling a little sick, thinking about everyone on that ship dying because of me.”

“Take all the time you need,” Frankie tells her, lying back in her bed again. 

“What of the woman? Doctor Amari?” X6 asks.

“She is safe,” Preston assures him. “Railroad heavies were able to intercept the soldiers escorting her to the airport. She is with Desdemona and her people.”

“Good,” Frankie sighs. “I’d hate for anything to happen to her.”

She is pale, exhausted. It is more than physical fatigue… there is pain in her eyes. The pain of betrayal, of guilt over her failure to establish a peaceful accord with the Brotherhood. She tried to do things differently, to avoid bloodshed and take a path of peace - and her efforts were in vain. She has nothing to feel guilt for, he knows, but it is something she will have to work out within herself. She must learn to forgive herself for her perceived failure. Preston sees the look as well, knows it for what it is. He excuses himself, promising to return and check in again later. X6 and Frankie are left alone in the room, gazing at each other from over a distance that feels far wider than the reality of a mere few feet.

“You got me out of there,” she whispers. “I thought you were dead, and then… there you were, a ghost walking out of smoke. I thought it was a hallucination for a moment.”

“As long as I draw breath, there is nowhere they can put you that I will not find you again,” he tells her.  _ Perhaps even in death.  _

She gives him a crooked smile, the crooked smile he has kissed a dozen times and would kiss a thousand more if she let him.

“I have something to tell you,” he says.

His heart is ramming against his chest, threatening to beat its way through his cracking ribs. How does he tell her all the things he feels? How does he explain that she is the sun that crests the hills each day; her eyes the infinite blanket of night sky and stars that envelopes him when he sleeps.


	20. True Strength

“I love you,” he tells her, forcing the words out before they kill him.

Frankie stares at him, and the guarded expression on her face feels like a knife through his heart. She is so still, she might be a statue. He could reach out in this moment, let his fingertips graze her skin, and he is all but certain there would be cool marble where a living Frankie once was. The stillness of her is the most cruel thing that has ever been done to him, and it is all he can do to keep from throwing himself at her feet. Her eyes are twin voids in space, where no burning suns shine.

_I was right,_ the voice creeps into his anguished mind, whispers into his ear with barbed words. _Maxson was right. You only think you love her, because you are a malfunctioning machine. There is a reason Father forbade such things, a reason for such transgressions being punishable by death. To deceive yourself so is to all but self-destruct. Look at her, at the way your declaration has unsettled her. She doesn’t love you. You are nothing more than a distraction for her. A toy, to be played with and then discarded at the end of your usefulness. Ironic, that in the end - despite everything - you are exactly what the Institute intended you to be. A tool, a creature in service._

“Do you… feel the same, for me?” He hates himself for saying it, but if he does not ask it then the voice will never be silent. It will gnaw at him, a starving and ugly thing, chewing away at his flesh until only his bones remain. 

“Yes. Yes, X. I do.” She speaks in a voice he has never heard. Hoarse, as though she has been in a desert for days without water. It is filled with pain, unsteady and shaken. It is the affirmation he desperately wants, but he needs more. He has held his breath beneath the water for too long, and a little gasp of air before plunging back into the abyss will not sate his desperate requirement for oxygen.

“You do not speak of it. You do not say the words.”

Hesitation. The same broken voice answers. “I’m… so sorry. I’m not much good at these things.” She covers her face with her hand, runs her fingers through her hair. “Everyone I have ever said those words to has died, and I guess I… just stopped saying them. For years, I have been afraid. Afraid that… If I said them, it would doom them, somehow. I almost said the words, almost told you, in that moment on the command deck. Before all this shit happened. Look at where we almost ended up.”

He lets her speak, though the relentless hammering of his heartbeat does not relent. She goes on. The words pour from her, stiff and painful, like a reluctant muscle that has been torn or an old wound that refuses to truly mend.

“I lost my mother when I was just six years old. Just old enough that for the longest time... I could still remember the shape of her face and the sound of her voice, or the way flour clung to her hands before she dusted them off. How she always smelled like vanilla and cardamom, and freckles dusted her shoulders. I can’t remember any of it now, not really. Just... memories of descriptions. I lost dad to cancer… and the worst part of it was I wasn’t even there for him when he finally went. I was off in Baghdad, voluntarily playing soldier so I could afford that new racing bike I wanted. My sister in law died during childbirth, bringing Shaun into the world. That was when I moved in with my brother, spent more time with him. He needed me. He had a brand new baby to take care of, and grief to wrestle with. It wasn’t even selfless of me. I didn’t want that life, didn’t want to be a caretaker… but I felt so guilty about dad, I settled down into suburbia and found myself changing diapers and getting spit up on. The most fucked up part is… I _resented_ him for needing me. How terrible is that?”

It is a torrent of words. More than she has ever spoken about herself before.

“And then the Institute took him from me. My whole life, I always knew where he was. Always knew if he was okay. I don’t know if that’s just… some kind of additional sense that comes from being a twin, or what… but I just _knew._ I felt it, the moment Kellogg shot him. The moment Nate let go, and left his body behind. Losing him was like having my heart ripped from my chest, like… I should be dead, but couldn’t die. They took Shaun, and then it was just...me, alone in a vault with my dead brother. Shaun and I were separated by sixty years and a world hell-bent on killing me. Now he’s gone, too, one more body in the family grave and… There is only me, and you, and this thing between us that I am terrified will destroy you as well. It has destroyed everything else I have ever known or cared about.”

Her eyes plead with him to understand, beg him to walk in the shoes of a woman who has lost so much. She bears the wounds of a life that has cut deeply, over and over again, until there is nothing left but scar tissue beneath the blade’s edge. She is trusting him enough to show him those scars, not only the visible ones but the hidden ones as well.

“I loved someone, once, in the same way I... do now. It was back during the war. It happens like that sometimes, when you stand to lose everything at any given second. Mortal peril is a hell of a motivator. Our squad was holed up for weeks, pinned down by enemy fire, and I guess… we kept each other alive, in the love that grew between us. Death isn’t only something that affects your body. Your soul can die, too, in little fits and starts. You stop remembering the smell of baking bread, of home, in your dreams... and start remembering the way the burned bodies in the center of that last town smelled instead. What we had… It was an escape. It gave us something to cling to that wasn’t covered in mud or shit or fear. I told him how I felt, the last day in that foxhole. We agreed that after our tour was concluded we’d make an honest go of things, or try to. As honest a go as two war dogs could make of it. Two hours later, a sniper’s bullet put an end to him. To us.” 

She avoids his gaze now, picks at something invisible on her bedsheet. 

“I had never loved anyone like that, before him. As I picked the bits of his skull out of my hair and wiped his blood from my face, I vowed I never would again. There is no room for such things, no place for love to grow, when you choose a life of battle and blood. He is the reason I stayed in my profession, the reason I signed up to work as a hired gun. It was insulation, protection. It kept me from being willing to risk such a thing again.”

Her chest is heaving with emotion, the stillness of her body broken by her confession. There is such pain on her face that he feels it as though it were his own pain. He regrets pushing her, regrets his selfish words. All this time, she has been carrying this in her heart - and he did not see it, did not understand her. He has never understood her, not truly, until this moment. He has misinterpreted everything she has done, seeing it as strength. Her aloofness, her reluctance to bond with others, her savagery. It was all part of the walls she built to protect herself. He rises from his bed, goes to her, folds her up in his arms with the tenderness one might afford a small bird that has fallen from its nest. She is stronger now than he has ever seen her. True strength is more than mere physical power, or prowess in battle. He sees that now. True strength comes from being brave enough to face your pain, and having the courage to survive it.

“I am here,” he whispers into her hair. “I am flesh, and I am real, and there is nothing that can tear me away from you. Not now, and not ever.”

She shudders, her body spasms, and he realizes she is crying. Truly crying. Her fingers clutch the fabric of his shirt, pull it tight into curled fists, and Frankie lets the last thread of her control snap and break. 

-

There are two surprises in store for them, once the dust settles. The following morning brings Haylen to their doorway once more. She is holding Frankie’s Pip-Boy, stolen from Maxson’s own quarters by Haylen. Relief floods Frankie’s face as Haylen hands her the device, and she buckles it onto her left wrist once more. Without it, and with X6’s device destroyed, it is their only way back to the Institute. The alternative would be radioing on a very weak signal and asking for a retrieval team, but it has not been an urgent matter. Not yet, with their bodies healing and resting.

The second surprise comes some time later, as X6 is patrolling the ramparts. He stands at the edge of the great stone wall, watching smoke rise on the horizon from the still-smoldering ruin of the Prydwen. The sky is cast with an unnatural hue, a haze brought from low, heavy clouds and the still-burning wreckage miles away. Small white flakes drift down, and he wonders if perhaps it is snowing. Something bumps into his legs. He looks down, surprised, to see a small grey striped cat rubbing its head against his leg.

“Emmett?” He inquires, though he knows it is the same cat. Green-gold eyes blink up at him, and X6 bends to pick up the little animal. It would seem the Pip-Boy is not the only thing rescued by Haylen’s capable hands. Emmett purrs, rubs his face against X6’s own smooth cheek. He allows himself a smile, strokes the vibrating body in his arms. He is surprised by how relieved he is to see the cat unharmed, and wonders if perhaps Emmett might enjoy the Institute. It would be safer for him there. Emmett stiffens at something suddenly, a low growl stirring in his throat. X6 turns to assess the threat, and sees Dogmeat standing at the top of the stairs, watching them with great interest. 

“I do not think he likes you, Dogmeat,” X6 warns. Emmett makes a spitting sound, his tail fluffing out in a surprising fashion as he locks eyes with the dog. Dogmeat seems unperturbed. He wags his tails, sits politely, brown eyes wide and innocent. Emmett relaxes somewhat, though his purring is put on hold in the proximity of the dog. X6 finds the reaction interesting, since as far as he knows the two have never met. Perhaps it is an instinctual thing, then.

“Dogmeat, shoo. You’re upsetting the cat.” Frankie’s head appears as she climbs the stairs, runs her hand over Dogmeat’s soft fur as he passes her with a look of reproach. She finishes her climb, crosses the rampart to look out at the rippling sea.

“The fire has been burning for nearly twenty four hours,” she observes. “Reminds me of the Hindenburg.” 

“Hindenburg?” X6 asks, pleased when Emmett resumes his purring. He does a peculiar thing with his paws, then, curling and expanding them while extending and retracting his claws. As he does this, he wears a distinctly rapturous look on his face. His eyes close and he seems lost in the action. The claws do not make it through the leather of his coat, so X6 allows it to continue, but finds himself intrigued by the behavior.

“A famous blimp from human history. Famous, because it caught fire and crashed and burned. Much like the Prydwen.”

He looks to her, fascinated. “I suppose only someone of your unique circumstances could say you have seen such an event not once, but twice in your life.”

She smiles at that, eyes not leaving the horizon. The smile fades. “There were good people aboard that ship, whatever their leader’s folly. I thought if I just… made him see, if I could reach him on a human level… things might be different. I’m trying, X. I’m trying to be a better person than I was.”

“There was little room in his heart for anything but hatred,” he says. “I do not believe anything you might have done differently would have changed the outcome.” He tells Frankie of his capture, then. Of Maxson’s plans, and what he intended to make X6 do. Frankie’s face falls as he tells the tale, expression shifting from sorrow to anger as he relays the details. By the time he is done telling it, Frankie’s hands are balled into fists and her mouth is set in a hard line. She shakes her head, as though to dislodge something.

“I am not often wrong about people, X, but I can admit I was wrong about him. I am… so sorry for what you went through. The circumstances of it are my fault.”

He gives her a bewildered look. “Surely you cannot believe that. I was at your side willingly. I _volunteered_ to stay aboard the ship. I chose to be there.”

“If I had listened to you from the beginning, if I had heeded your words of caution, neither of us would have ended up where we did.”

He strokes Emmett’s fur, eliciting louder and louder purring. It should not be possible for something so small to make such great noise. “You did what you thought was best for your people. That is all any leader can do.”

She sighs, but does not argue further. She joins him in giving the cat attention, fingers scratching beneath the little white chin and at the base of the tail. Emmett finds the latter particularly pleasing, arching his back and bracing his back feet against X6’s supporting palm. 

She allows his eyes to capture hers, to hold them in place. A black and bottomless lake, in which only his reflection stands. 

“I think perhaps I’ve loved you since that night on the farm, when we stuffed our faces and danced beneath the lights. That was when I felt the first tugging of it, here.” A hand goes over her heart, fingers tapping at her breastbone. “There was a spark of joy in your eyes at the table, and when I asked you to dance… you came along anyway, even though you didn’t want to. You did it for _me._ In that moment, I could picture a whole life with you. It felt so normal, so right. We were just two people celebrating a barn raising and sleeping beneath the stars. It was the first time I’d felt… good, complete, in years.” 

“A whole life with me?” He dares to repeat, the words strange on his tongue. “You would wish for such a thing?”

“Yeah,” Frankie says gently. “I think I would. If it’s something you want.”

“You are the only person who has ever asked me what I wanted, or cared what my answers might be,” he whispers. “But if this choice is as much mine as it is yours… then yes. I, too, wish for that.”

Emmett is placed back on the ground, much to his disgust, and Frankie pulls X6 into her arms. They stand on the parapet overlooking the churning sea, wrapped up in each other. He realizes the soft white flakes that float down from the burnished clouds and cling to Frankie’s hair are not unseasonable snow, but ash. He lets her go, reaches into his pocket and produces the broken bit of shell. A pearlescent rainbow gleams, ripples, within the hollow of it.

“What’s this?” Frankie asks, the corners of her mouth amused.

“It is us,” he tells her, struggling for the words to explain. “This shell is… ageless. Time has stripped away its softness, taken away much of what it once was, or thought it was… but what is left behind is forever, beautiful in its own right but untempered by the destruction around it.”

She takes the shell carefully, the pads of her fingers and the edges of her nails grazing his palm. She regards the item, turning it this way and that, observing the layers of color and the imprint of the creature that once resided in the shell.

“You are full of surprises, X,” she tells him, voice soft. “You can be the fiercest of warriors, and at the same time… the gentlest of souls.”

“Iron and sand,” he says, closing her fingers over the bit of shell and kissing the backs of them. “Much like you.”

“Is that what you think I am?” Her eyes are liquid, the shifting sea in the darkest of nights. 

“You are more than that,” he tells her. “When I was first assigned to watch you, I thought of you as a dragon. Powerful, dangerous, immovable - with shining scales no weapon could penetrate.”

She chuckles at that, deep in her throat. It is wind, rustling through sheaves of razorgrain. “A dragon? How do you know what a dragon is? That can’t be part of the Courser curriculum.”

“I saw a painting of one, once, in a museum all but destroyed by the bombs. It was a great winged thing, the fire belching from its mouth reflected in its eyes. I would watch as you sat atop your roof, smoke rising to the stars overhead, and would think to myself… _She_ is the true dragon.” He is reluctant to confess this. Perhaps she will think him foolish, misguided, silly. She does not. She only regards him with those bottomless eyes, utterly somber.

“You paint a flattering picture of me, X,” she chides him gently. “Far more flattering than I deserve.”

“I speak only the truth,” he says. “Though... I was wrong. You are not the dragon. You are the dragon’s fire.”

_Burning in the heart of me,_ he finishes silently, as Frankie’s lips meet his.


	21. Salvation

X6 finds himself going on walks, over the land and stretches of beach surrounding the Castle. He has spent so much time in the Commonwealth, and yet seen so little. He is witnessing the world through new eyes. On this particular morning, autumn is in full effect, bringing with it an edge to the air that bites his skin with a thousand small and sharp teeth. He enjoys the sensation, enjoys the ripple of gooseflesh that rises to meet the air’s assault. He deliberately leaves his jacket behind on these little sojourns, relishing the wind against him. The few trees that still bear leaves have shifted to an array of russets and golds and bright crimson. The grass at his feet is brittle, now, dwindling from springtime’s vibrant green to summer’s muted hues to autumn’s gold. It rustles pleasantly against the worn fabric of his borrowed jeans as he walks, shifting and whispering in the strong breeze coming off the water. 

He finds it hard to believe he once found the Commonwealth and everything in it to be ugly. Now, as he gazes out across the rippling ocean and watches seabirds dive amongst the waves and come back up, water rolling off their backs like scattering glass beads, he can’t imagine a life lived out belowground. A life without ever feeling the true warmth of the sun, or the sensation of sand between toes. As a Courser, he was fortunate to see the surface as much as he did - a privilege taken for granted in his disdain. If not for Frankie, many would have lived out their natural - or unnatural - lives entirely in the Institute, never seeing a sunrise or tasting the salt on the air.

The soft sound of quiet weeping reaches his ears over the symphony of the earth, and he turns, searching for the source. It could not be Frankie. He left her still abed, lips curved as she dreamed of sweet things. Perhaps she dreamed of him. He follows the sounds of anguish, and finds the source curled up beneath the shadow of a large and gnarled tree. Scribe Haylen is alone, her cheeks tear-stained and dirty from her hands wiping at them. She is lost in herself, in her grief, and does not see X6 until he is only a few paces away. She startles when her eyes focus on his shape, instinctively scooting back a few more inches until her spine is pressed into the rough bark of the ancient elm.

“I thought I was alone out here,” she manages to gasp, wiping at her face with one sleeve frantically.

“As did I,” he answers simply. He lowers himself into a crouch, rocking back on his heels. He knows by assuming such a position, he is less intimidating. More approachable. These are things he has learned from Frankie. What would Frankie say now, to the shuddering woman before him? “You are sad,” he continues, searching for words. “Is it because you miss your people?”

“Miss them?” Haylen asks, her voice rising an octave and her eyes suddenly flashing. “I  _ killed _ them.”

“Preston and the Minutemen killed them,” he reminds her. “You simply intervened, that innocent lives might be spared.” 

“I betrayed them,” Haylen’s voice drops to a whisper. “And because of my actions, the Boston airport is a mass grave now.”

“They would not have stopped with killing Frankie or killing me.” He wills his voice to soften, to be kinder. It is easy where Frankie is concerned, but with others it still takes an effort. “They would have killed everyone in the Institute. Every man, woman, and synth. Hundreds slain in the name of fear. Fear of something they cannot - _would_ not - begin to understand. Even I am learning to fully understand it. What… I am. What I am capable of. Thanks to you, I have my life and Frankie has hers. I owe you a great debt for what you have done.”

He is surprised by the quake that enters his voice, by the intensity of the gratitude he suddenly feels for the small woman huddled amongst the roots of a dead tree. Her crying has lessened, and she is regarding him with wide blue eyes. She is desperate for his words, for relief from the pain and guilt in her heart. He continues, hoping his words might reach her and still the disquiet of her soul.

“Frankie once told me that the most difficult choice and the  _ right _ choice are often the same thing. You betrayed your own people, that another people might be allowed to live. I betrayed my makers, that their creations might be given the chance to experience a world forbidden to them. We are not so dissimilar, though I think perhaps you were far braver in your actions than I was in mine.”

“You think I’m braver than  _ you?” _ She almost laughs at the sheer lunacy of his statement, her gaze roaming over his thickly muscled arms and shoulders and the height he bears even when crouched. She cannot imagine him being anything but a fearsome Institute Courser. A  _ super soldier,  _ made for war _.  _

“You acted alone, out of your own conscience,” he tells her. “I would never have acted, if not for meeting Frankie. Until she made me question myself, see myself through another’s eyes, I was content in my work beneath the Institute’s thumb. If not for Frankie, I would likely still be doing what I was made for.”

There is shame in the truth of his words. It would be easy to give himself more credit, to convince himself he might have evolved on his own. He does not believe he would, though. He fit neatly into the box made for him, and would have remained in it until forcibly removed. He was not like X3-55, who found the courage in herself to run - even if it cost her everything.  _ Frankie _ saved him, where he could not save himself. She saved him from more than a life of servitude… She saved him from himself. 

Haylen sniffles, mops at her runny nose with the same tattered sleeve. “I guess you’re right about one thing. We are alike, in our situations if nothing else. My people… the Brotherhood… also isolated us, insisted we believe and enforce certain things. If you didn’t, you’d either be court martialed or made to scrub decks and do push-ups until your arms gave out. Though I’m guessing for you, the consequences were probably a lot worse.”

“Death,” he agrees. “In one form or another. To malfunction is to have all you are destroyed. Either through reprogramming, or an incinerator.”

“You risked  _ everything _ for her,” Haylen notes, her voice soft. 

“She did no less for me,” he answers.

“Thank you,” Haylen says with a little nod of her head. Some color has returned to her pale cheeks, and the tears have ceased. “I... needed to hear this from someone. I haven’t slept in days. I keep… Seeing it all playing out before me again. At night, in my dreams, I hear the thunder of the artillery and see the smoke billowing on the horizon. I thought the guilt might crush me. I suppose there is still time for it to do so.” She smiles at that, a soft and sad little curve of her lips.

“Sometimes, when the water closes over our heads and we no longer have the strength to swim… we need another to reach in and pull us out.” He rises, closes the distance between them, and extends his hand to her. “Let me help you, as Frankie helped me.”

Haylen regards his hand for a moment, weighing something, then slips her small and slender and very cold hand into his. The appendage is frail, birdlike, much like its owner. If he squeezed hard enough, he might crush it. His fingers close around hers, and she allows him to pull her up from the base of the tree. They walk back to the Castle together, and there are no further words required. They have an understanding, now, the petite scribe and the looming Courser.

-

There is little room for rest, as is often the case for leaders of men. It is time to take their leave of the Castle, and Preston grips X6 firmly by the hand before they go.

“Thank you,” he tells X6 sincerely, lending both hands to the gesture. “For looking out for her. I don’t know what might have happened if it weren’t for you.”

“I am not the one who took the Prydwen down,” X6 answers, and realizes he is smiling. “But I appreciate the… sentiment.”

“I’d do it twice more over,” Preston says with feeling. “For Frankie, and for the Commonwealth. She’d have done the same - if not more - for me.”

They look over at Frankie in unison, where she is talking with Haylen. She senses eyes on her, turns to look at them. Her own eyes narrow in jest, as if to tell them she is suspicious of their conversation. Preston chuckles.

“You’ll have your hands full with that one. Treat her kindly, X6. And be sure she treats you with equal kindness. Love like that is rare, and must be looked after.”

“Until we meet again,” X6 nods respectfully, and the handshake ends. X6 wonders if he considers Preston a friend. Until this moment, Frankie has been his only  _ friend.  _ He thinks Preston might be one as well, now, and the thought is somehow heartening. The world is not so small as he once thought it to be. Frankie is approaching, and she holds Emmett the cat in her arms.

“Haylen said you can keep him. She said Emmett has taken a shine to you and she can’t bear the thought of parting the two of you.” Frankie offers him the cat, who lets out a soft sort of chirping sound at the sight of him. 

X6 takes Emmett in his arms, absurdly pleased by the animal’s preference for him. There is something special in the gesture, to be chosen above all others by such a haughty little creature. It feels somewhat similar to being chosen by Frankie. His hands automatically begin to smooth the gray striped fur, once more inciting loud purring. Over the few days they have been here, Emmett has slowly and begrudgingly grown used to Dogmeat. Now he looks over X6’s shoulder at the wagging dog with a distinct air of disdainful tolerance. Frankie laughs, ruffles the fur atop Dogmeat’s head. 

“Do you know anything about caring for a cat?” She asks him, a brow raised.

“I was hoping  _ you _ did,” he confesses. “I have never had such extensive contact with an animal.”

Frankie sighs, her smile undiminished. “You’re in luck. In my time, just about every household had a cat. Even we had one, when I was younger. Her name was Madame Fluffypants. I’ll help you with caring for Emmett. Speaking of… Are you ready to go?” 

“Yes,” he answers. “Let’s go home.”

It is more than a word, now. The Institute is no longer a cold laboratory or a place of unfeeling science. It is not a place designed to enclose him, to force him into a shape and hold him trapped in it. There was a time the Institute was not much different than the manacles in the basement of Fort Strong; keeping him imprisoned, suspended, unable to move or sleep or dream. Now it is a place where there is true hope for the future. A place where he and Frankie are free to explore each other and their bond. Synthkind is no longer under the thumb of the Institute, and will experience boundless potential under the leadership of Frankie.

She pulls up the command on the Pip-Boy, then places one hand on his right arm and the other on Dogmeat’s collar. With a flash of blue light, the four of them leave the Castle behind.

Their return is met with concern and relief. The last anyone in the Institute knew, X6 was missing and their Director was rubbing elbows with the Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel. It would seem despite Frankie’s policy of transparency, the rumor mill has been hard at work and discontentment has been sown. Several of X6’s Coursers meet them as they enter the Atrium, and make their report to Frankie. A day prior, a handful of rebellious scientists had decided to take advantage of the devolving situation. They made a desperate attempt to take over the Institute's mainframe and override the security systems. Their goal was, it seemed, to take the Institute back. It was a pathetic plan, one borne of minds not equipped for battle tactics. Even if they had managed to wrest control of the mainframe and security turrets, they would have less than no chance at surviving against an army of Coursers. An army of Coursers loyal to the Director and X6. They had failed, and were locked up while awaiting Frankie’s judgement. If not for Frankie’s standing orders against more violence, X6 had no doubt the scientists would be ash in the incinerator by now. She allows the Courser before her to make his report, her head tilted to one side as she listens intently.

“Have them changed into wasteland clothing, then bring them to the relay room,” she orders once he is finished. “They knew what they were risking when they attempted their little coup.”

“Right away ma’am,” the Courser responds smoothly. 

Frankie watches him go, turns to X6. “It’s a constant battle, X. The moment I turn my back, people try to restore the Institute to the way it once was.”

“They will continue to fail,” he tells her. “I once doubted your ability to secure a position here, but you were correct in your original assessment.”

“And what was that?” She asks, one brow raised.

“You told me I would  see what happens when free will is given to those who have served in chains all their lives. The people who serve you now do it freely, of their own accord. It is a dedication forged from gratitude and respect. You have saved them, earned the right to lead them, and there is no loyalty like one borne of a life debt. I understand, for I bear the same loyalty.”

“You don’t owe me anything, X,” she shakes her head. 

“You saved me as much as you did the rest of my people,” he insists.

She angles her head, cocking it to one side and regarding him with fathomless eyes that glitter like moonlit obsidian. “You idiot,” she says in the gentlest of voices, one hand reaching up to cup his face. “I didn’t save you. You saved  _ me.” _

She is perhaps the only person alive who might call X6 an  _ idiot _ and mean something entirely different, and he finds himself responding to her words with a wide smile. He overlaps her hand with his own, presses it to his cheek.

The Coursers return, a stumbling group of scientists in custody. Frankie ignores their cries of protests and their pleas, following at X6’s side as they are taken to the relay room. She watches with hard eyes and a grimly set mouth as the scientists are ushered into the relay room at gunpoint. They are much diminished by their fear, their white lab coats replaced by mismatched outfits that have seen better days.

“You can’t do this to us,” one of the scientists moans. “We’ll die up there.”

“You have a chance of life up there,” Frankie tells him, a muscle flexing in her jaw but otherwise as cold and unyielding as stone. “Down here, you will certainly die. There is no room for slavers within the Institute. Not anymore.”

“They’re not humans,” another protests. “There are no  _ slaves  _ down here _. _ Once again, you are meddling with things you cannot begin to understand. You’ve deluded yourself, anthropomorphized  _ machines.  _ We all know it started with your  _ fucking _ one of them. If Father had known, he would never have let you in. Never given you power. You’re a sympathizer, like the members of the Railroad. You think because something walks and talks and looks human, it is. It's just _programming._ We designed them to seem human, but you can't see the difference between us and them. We should have expected such stupidity from a pre-war relic like you.”

Frankie laughs at that, the sound clear and ringing and harsh. There is no warmth to it. It has all the light of a bell tolling for the dead. It echoes throughout the control room, making each of the scientists flinch in unison.

“I’ll remember your words tonight, when I climb into a warm bed beside a man who is a thousand times more human than any of you. Enjoy the Commonwealth. I hear it’s cold this time of year.”

She presses the button herself, and blinding light envelopes the cowering group. 

There is no room for insubordination in Frankie’s Institute. She will force change, whether by soft words or a closed fist. The scientists have made their choice, and will have to find their way on the surface without the Institute to protect them. X6 remains behind as Frankie and the others exit the relay room. He gazes at an object on the floor.  One of the scientists dropped a faded old hat before the relay took him. None bothered to pick it up, and it remains where it is, a chewed leather monument to Frankie’s reign. He feels himself smile at the sight of it, and follows the others down the hall and back into the atrium.


	22. Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every chapter I post, I'm like, ok, THIS is my favorite chapter. For real this time.
> 
> But I think this one might actually be it.  
> \------------------------------------------

There is much to be done, with the threat of the Brotherhood removed. Frankie has plans to put into motion. She starts with the Railroad, providing key members with relay chips, that they might come and go as needed within the Institute. At times, they bring at-risk synths back to the Institute. In other instances, they escort synths to their new lives on the surface. Some request new memories, desiring the false reality of humanity more than the thoughts in their own heads. Others choose to retain their minds, and need a wasteland education and training in how to survive aboveground. Deacon is their most frequent visitor, often stopping in to chat with Frankie or nose around the facility he has spent so many years wondering about. Whenever he makes eye contact with X6, he either lowers his glasses to wink or waggles his brows over the edges of the lenses. X6 does not reciprocate, though he finds it somewhat amusing. He supposes Deacon, too, can be considered a  _ friend.  _ If not for Deacon’s intervention, it is very likely the synth known as Glory would have blown X6 away in that alley.

“You should come with us,” Deacon tells him one day, watching as two synths step into the relay room. “You can tag along and help them get situated in their new lives.”

The synths in question are two that have elected to keep their minds and memories intact. They will have their share of challenges in the path they have chosen, but X6 understands. He would do the same. There is little point in reimagining the past and living a blind future. He prefers life without such a blindfold. Pain and fear are valuable lessons, for it is from them one learns to survive. He considers Deacon's invitation for a moment. He decides he likes the idea of helping the synths, of guiding them on their new journey.

“Yes,” he answers Deacon. “I think I will.”

“Hey, alright, awesome,” Deacon says cheerfully, punching X6 in the arm. It is a light strike, a teasing gesture, but X6 automatically stiffens nonetheless. “Woah, big guy, don’t snap me in half or something,” Deacon chortles in response, stepping into the relay room himself. 

X6 follows, feeling somewhat abashed at his unconscious reaction. With the exception of Frankie and an enthusiastic Emmett, touch is not a familiar part of his world. He is still unused to friendly handshakes and being slapped on the back, of hands squeezing a shoulder in a reassuring way or what Deacon refers to as  _ knuckles;  _ the bumping of one’s closed fist against another’s. It is not that he finds the moments of contact unpleasant, moreso that they still surprise him. Each day brings new things. Learning to be  _ human  _ rather than seeing himself as  _ malfunctioning  _ seems to be a lesson without end.

When the relay light clears, X6 finds himself blinking beneath the bright sun. They are standing in a wide alley. Fortifications here are significant; High walls topped with razor wire block each end of the alley, and there are turrets mounted to the tall buildings on either side. Guards stand watch on platforms looking over the walls, watchful eyes scanning the streets of old Boston beyond. The alley itself has a few worktables, and a spit turns over a cheery fire as something roasts over it. One of the apartment buildings backing the alley has been repurposed, and there is foot traffic back and forth as residents and Railroad members alike go about their day. It is here that synths come to find refuge, to learn about the wasteland and acclimate to life on the surface. He is impressed by the setup. Not so large it might draw attention, but well-defended enough to ward off any  _ unwanted _ attention. The Railroad has been at this for decades. It is no small wonder they have become so able at being both seen and unseen. A few glances are cast their way upon arrival, but otherwise little changes in response to the presence of the two synths and their escort.

“Let’s get you two settled in your rooms,” Deacon tells the synths. “Then we’ll see about orientation. If you’re lucky, we won’t miss dinner.”

The two synths cast a dubious eye at the animal roasting over the fire. X6 recognizes it as a molerat, but decides against mentioning it. These synths are used to ration packs and filtered water. Their introduction to the wasteland will be a difficult - and rather gamey - one.

“You want us to eat that?” One of the synths, the woman, asks. Her eyes are uncertain, her mouth set in a worried line. “It still has a  _ head  _ attached.”

“There are no nutrient packets here,” X6 tells her in a firm tone. “The life you have chosen to lead is one of hard work and meals that require adaptation. If you are not cut out for life up here, you may relay back and enjoy the soft environs of the Institute.”

Her timid face changes, hardens, her jaw setting into a determined line. “No,” she answers. “We are not going back. We will eat whatever they offer us.”

He notices, not with any significant surprise, that the synth reaches down and grabs her companion’s hand for support. It would seem they are yet another of more than a few once-forbidden Institute pairings, finding the courage to come to light under the grace of Frankie’s rule. The new era has been full of unexpected revelations. At times, X6 feels as though the Institute he once knew had never truly existed. Where he saw order, there was in truth chaos - it simply ran beneath the surface, much as an underground river flows beneath the ground at one's feet.

Deacon beckons the synths on, and the group enters the repurposed apartment building. A woman stands behind a counter in the shabby lobby, and the two synths approach her. As the two speak with the Railroad woman and she assigns them a key, explaining the rules of living here, Deacon leans in towards X6.

“I knew you’d be good at this,” he whispers. “You’re terrifying.”

“Thank you,” X6 replies somberly, to which Deacon stifles a giggle and simultaneous snort. 

Once temporary living quarters have been established, the rest follows. The synths must choose names for themselves - proper names, rather than sequences of numerals and numbers as given to them by the Institute. They are handed a ratty old book titled  _ The 2075 Guide to Baby Names,  _ and spend a good half hour poring over the contents of it and trying on various names as though they were hats or scarves. X6 watches with interest as they struggle to pronounce some, and find others pleasing. The woman chooses first, settling on the name  _ Miranda.  _ Her partner soon settles on  _ Benjamin.  _ They call each other by their new names, giddy in the freedom of it.  _ Benjamin, _ she says with a suddenly giddy laugh.  _ Benjamin, _ she repeats once more, as she kisses the man in question. X6 watches them and suddenly finds himself _angry,_ angry that anyone would ever deny another person - synth or otherwise - the experience of such abject joy. If one were to attempt to wrest it from him now, he would die rather than surrender himself to subjugation again.

“Now, the key is to practice using them as much as you can in conversations,” Deacon instructs them. “Remember, your safety depends on how well you get to know the personas you are crafting for yourselves. You’ve gotta learn to respond to  _ Miranda _ and  _ Ben _ as if you were born to those names.”

X6 finds himself wondering what Deacon’s name was before his time in the Railroad. He knows  _ Deacon  _ is not the man’s real name. None of them bear their original monikers, a precaution against being found out by the Institute. At a certain point, their assumed names became as real as any other name they had once been given. He considers asking Deacon, but knows it will be a fruitless endeavor. Frankie has told him a little of the man, and Deacon is the sort to keep personal details close to his chest. No small wonder Frankie and Deacon like each other, considering she is equally tight-lipped. It has taken her months to allow X6 into her heart and her mind. He thinks perhaps with Deacon, it might take years. Decades, even. He is willing to invest the time. It is what  _ friends  _ do.

He has never considered adopting a name for himself. He weighs the idea as he watches Miranda and Ben stretch their new legs, testing phrases and greetings. There has never been a particular need for the gesture - not as the Director’s second. He is secure within that position, safe under Frankie’s protection. He has no plans to live on the surface and take up farming; raking muck and furrowing the ground until his back aches each day. While his designation is Institute-given, he realizes he feels no particular need to shed it like a second skin. It is part of who he is, a reminder of what he has left behind. Frankie calls him  _ X,  _ and he has no wish for her to call him anything else. There is still something special to it, a gift given to him all that time ago that retains its sacred nature. It was the first brick of many, building a foundation beneath their feet.

True to her word, Miranda eats the dinner before her that night. She seems surprised when she takes the first bite of roasted meat, her eyes going wide and meeting X6’s knowing gaze. Even molerat, roasted over an open fire and with little seasoning save for salt - is better than the nutrient packs given to synths. There was always a hierarchy to the food served within the Institute. The most elaborate supplements were reserved for humans, as the most important denizens. Coursers were offered some variety, though of considerably less broad options. Any synths below the designation of Courser were given the supplements that required the least amount of effort and resources. As tools and servants, there was no need for them to  _ enjoy  _ their meals. It was sustenance, nothing more. In fact, little was wasted on them in general. Even as a Courser, X6 slept on a bunk that was not dissimilar to a cobblestone street in feel. Frankie had noticed and commented on it, her first night in the Institute. Synths of lesser rank slept in pods, designed to conserve space, one on top of the other and with just enough room to turn over or sit up. The Institute had more important things to focus on than the comfort of the network that made things run.

Miranda and Benjamin devour their meal with relish. There is roasted molerat and an orange substance that Deacon informs them is mashed gourd, with butter. A plate of biscuits is passed around, and though they are not exactly fluffy - they are dense and rich. X6 eats without reservation. He has long since grown accustomed to wasteland food, and prefers it to anything the Institute could provide. He thinks perhaps once things are settled, he might like to learn to cook. He wonders if Frankie cooks, and if she would enjoy cooking alongside him. He enjoys the idea, turning the image of it over in his mind’s eye.  _ Frankie, stirring something at a stove while he chops some sort of vegetable. He might turn, then, smiling at something she said. He would slide his hands around her waist, and she would laugh and tell him to finish his task or the stew will burn. He wouldn’t care. He would kiss the back of her neck in the way she liked, she would become distracted, and the stew would burn. _

“I’ve seen that look before,” Deacon says from across the table. “Shit, buddy, you’ve got it real bad.”

He offers Deacon a rueful smile, an admittance of his daydreaming. “I suppose I do,” he answers. “Have you ever felt this way? Does your life in the Railroad allow for such things?”

A shadow passes over Deacon’s face, and X6 thinks if it were not for the glasses, there might be pain in the azure eyes behind them. Deacon appears to weigh the question, both reluctant to answer the question and wanting to.

“I have,” he admits. “But it was before my time in the Railroad.”

“It did not end well.” It is more of a statement than a fact. X6 is finding himself more and more able to _read_ _ between the lines  _ as Frankie puts it. 

“She was a synth,” Deacon says, the words coming out of him along with a sigh. “One of your Institute’s runaways, I guess, not that she knew it. I didn’t know it, not for a long time. By the time I found out, I didn’t care. Her origins didn’t matter, only the way she made me feel, you know?” 

“Yes,” and X6 does know, knows it to the marrow in his bones.

“The wasteland and its people were not kind to her, to us. So I was not kind to them.”

Deacon resumes eating, a finality in the action. It is all that he wishes to reveal, and it is enough. X6 can see the picture his friend has painted, however vague the details might be. Deacon loved a synth, and she was taken from him by other humans. It would seem he had his vengeance in the end, though such a thing is often bittersweet and offers no true resolution. It does not bring one back from the dead. He might have avenged  _ J  _ all those months ago, slaying the raiders who killed her - but she was no less dead, no less another body in a pile of similar victims. The past cannot be changed, however desperate the effort to make it so.

“I am sorry,” X6 tells Deacon, wanting very much to comfort the man sitting across from him in that moment. “I know she is gone, but do not forget that her love changed you. It made you who you are today. She lives through you, and the actions you choose to take. Her legacy remains, in all those you have helped walk free.”

Deacon pauses mid-bite, sets down his fork. He reaches up, slides the glasses down his nose, and fixes his vivid blue eyes on X6’s own.

“I can see why Frankie fell for you,” he tells X6. “You’re nowhere near as stupid as you look.”

X6 surprises himself with a laugh, rich and genuine. It is something he is becoming more familiar with each passing day.

They share a bunk that night, Deacon on the top and X6 on the bottom. They swap stories. X6 tells him of his first memories. Of rising from the vat, naked and alone, dermal stimulant sloughing from his new skin and pooling at his feet on the platform. Of walking down a long hall, and somehow knowing everything he needed to know. Commands programmed into him.  _ Walk. Breathe. Blink. Sir. Ma’am. As you wish. If you command. Obey. Obey. Obey. You are an Institute Courser, and obeisance is your trade.  _ He speaks of his first uniform, and the way he stepped into it as though he had been doing it all his life. He remembers preparing for his first mission, and the way holding a rifle in his hands was as natural as breathing. It is painful to look back on these memories, to see himself through the haze of years and experience. It feels like watching someone else through cloudy glass. Another self, a distant self. A self he wishes he might forget.

Other things came later, over his years of service. His relish for the hunt, the swelling pride in his chest that was stoked with each word of casual praise. Father’s notice of him resulting in more opportunities, better missions. The coveted position of _favorite._ The envious eyes of other Coursers, longing to be their master's most prized fighting dog. The calluses forming on his hands and on his heart, toughening him, building a wall of his own between himself and the shaking synths at his feet. Watching synth after synth reprogrammed or decommissioned. Hearing their cries as a long row of needles pierced their skin, stole their sense of self. The smell of hot meat in the incinerator room, where the old and broken beyond repair meet their end. Fear of failure, of becoming like  _ them. _ A broken unit in need of correction. A machine, malfunctioning in its desire to be more. A dragon on a rooftop, the tendrils of her smoke in his blood and obfuscating the X6 he thought he was, thought he knew.

He struggles to put into words all of these things. It is the first time he has told anyone his history in such detail. He has not even spoken of such things to Frankie, and it feels both a betrayal and a release. Deacon does not speak, does not ask questions unless prompted. He simply listens. It is a silence as comfortable as a sweater worn for many years, until the weave of it is softer than the brush of a lover’s fingertips. Each word from his lips leaves X6 feeling lighter, as though he has been long carrying something heavy on his shoulders and it is at last time for relief to be given.

In turn, Deacon tells X6 of his time in the Railroad. X6 finds himself rather heartsick as he hears of all the pain and struggle and fear the members of the Railroad have experienced at the hands of the Institute. At the hand of  _ his _ former masters... and at his  _ own _ hands. One detail in particular makes X6 feel suddenly and terribly sick, as though he might throw up the dinner he has just eaten. Deacon tells him of their former headquarters, a place called Switchboard, destroyed by the Institute. A place hidden beneath the old Slocum Joe’s. Few made it out alive, fewer still survived. It has been abandoned, now, the dead left where they have fallen. A graveyard of tunnels and murky water.

“Desdemona forbade any of us from returning,” Deacon tells him. “She was afraid there would still be eyes on it. Waiting for us to walk right back into a trap.”

X6 knows the place. He remembers it well, the narrow passageways of the old sewer and the filthy water eddying around the ankles of his boots. He remembers the turrets he destroyed, the fleeing men and women he shot in the back. It is hard to remember the event, to relive the moments of a cold and efficient Courser - but the memories come to him anyway, prompted by Deacon’s tale.

He remembers the smell of singed flesh rising from the bodies riddled with laser fire. He remembers Gen 2 and Gen 1 synths going in first, a distraction before the true storm. He and his fellow Coursers laid waste to the Switchboard, their only failure being unable to secure one man hidden behind a steel door so thick no charge could penetrate it. X6 managed to get one shot off before the door closed behind him, knowing it would be fatal. The femoral artery in one leg was severed. Time would do the rest. The man would bleed to death in minutes without a tourniquet, perhaps an hour _with_ one. X6 and his team left the man to die behind his steel door, satisfied with the small victory.  _ He  _ killed that man - the man Deacon is now speaking of - and guilt writhes in X6’s belly like a snake clutched in a hostile fist. Tommy Whispers was Deacon’s friend, that much is clear from the tone of his voice… And X6 was the one who pulled the trigger.

He does not want to keep this secret from Deacon. If they are to be friends, then it must be built on honesty. He once confessed truths to Frankie and was forgiven, and he hopes Deacon can forgive him as well.

“I was there,” he whispers to the mattress above him.

_“What?”_ Deacon asks, though he has heard the words. It is less a request for reiteration and more an expression of shock.

“In the Switchboard. I was… part of the team sent to destroy it.” His voice wavers, and he forces the rest of the words out, each one painful and threatening to choke him. “I was one of the Coursers who killed so many of your people. I killed your friend, Tommy Whispers.”

He has no right to hope for absolution. He has deluded himself into thinking he could change, become better. More human. No matter how he may skirt the details, the facts remain. He was one of  _ them,  _ one of the mindless killers wielded by the Institute. A willing and bloodied sword. He has left a swath of terror and misery in the wake of his existence, and even now it haunts him. He will not lie to himself or to Deacon and say he regretted it at the time. During the siege, all he felt was pride. He was  _ proud  _ of his abilities, proud of the quick and efficient deaths he meted out in the name of Father and the Institute and _Humanity’s Best Hope for the Future._ The only regret he felt in that bloody and terrible hour was that each time an enemy fell by another’s gun, it was a shot missed. A coup not made.

Silence, from the bunk above. He wonders if Deacon is clutching his pistol. If any moment now, a bullet will tear through the mattress overhead and into X6. He would deserve as much, for what he has done to Deacon’s people. For what he has done to synths and humans alike in the name of the Institute. A minute, perhaps more, stretches out. He knows Deacon is not asleep. He interrupted him mid-story with his confession. He resists the urge to say more, leaving the pieces to fall where they may.

“Do you regret it? Your life, the way you were, before Frankie?” Deacon asks, voice hollow. Empty.

“Yes.” He means it, the sincerity of a thousand words crammed into that simple answer. “I will regret it for the rest of my life.”

“Good,” Deacon tells him. “As long as you feel that regret, as long as you seek to make amends for the things you have done, then that’s all that matters. We all deserve a second chance, a shot at… redemption. I was given one by the Railroad, just as you have been given one by Frankie.”

_ A shot at redemption. _ It would seem he is not the only one here with regrets. He is not alone in his desire to be a better man.


	23. A Bleeding God

He is ensconced in his office within the SRB, flipping through personnel files, when his earpiece crackles.

“X… You need to get down here. Now.” Frankie’s voice is dark, ominous, even over the radio. It immediately sets him on edge.

“Where are you?” He returns.

“Relay room. You’d better move fast. There isn’t much time.”

The Courser known as Astrid is barely conscious when he enters the room at a dead run. Frankie is beside her, cradling the woman’s head in her lap. Of all his Coursers, Astrid is his favorite. His most capable and trusted. To see her lying in a pool of blood, gasping for air as her lung collapses, fills X6 with an immediate and unbridled rage. Astrid’s face is a bloody mess. Her nose is broken, her cheekbone split by closed fists. Blood pulses from a gash in her forehead, and one eye is swollen shut. She has been shot several times, the laser rounds burrowing easily through her kevlar vest. Twice in the chest, that he can see, and her right arm is shattered - nearly severed - at the elbow from a metal bullet.

“What happened?” He demands, falling to his knees beside Frankie and the injured Courser.

“Maxson,” Astrid gasps before Frankie can answer. Her speech is slurred as she struggles to remain conscious. “He said… to give you a message. He said… This ends now. He wants you… and Frankie. To go…” she breaks off, coughing, and beneath her words and the wheezing rattle of her cough, he can hear fluid bubbling somewhere inside her chest. He does not flinch when flecks of her blood speckle his face. He is unmoving, his eyes never leaving her. She has seconds, now, if that. Her lips are already smudged with gray and blue as she slowly asphyxiates. 

“To go where, Astrid?” Frankie asks, and her gentle fingers stroke the Courser’s blood-matted hair away from her forehead. 

“Mass...Pike. Tunnel. They have… your friend, Haylen.” Astrid coughs, then gags. Her eyes flutter, but she fights against them closing. Her left hand grips X6’s forearm with a sudden surge of strength, and her pupils dilate as she looks at him with a final breath of clarity. “It has been... an honor to know you, sir,” she manages to tell him. “You… paved the way for us all to find… peace.”

And then she is gone, slipping away from him into the dark waters of death. Her head falls back into Frankie’s lap, crimson bubbles burbling from between her parted lips.

Frankie is quiet. Deadly quiet. She is utterly still as she wrestles for control of her emotions. She does not say a word for several long moments, only stares down at the dead woman cradled in her hands. When she finally looks up to meet X6’s eyes, her voice is flat and emotionless. Composed, in the face of her grief and fury.

“Gear up,” she tells him. “We are leaving immediately.”

He should protest this. Though he also wishes to avenge Astrid and rescue Haylen, he is certain this is another trap. Astrid is more than a message. She was sent to them in this condition to incite them. Maxson ensured Astrid suffered, knowing it would kindle a greater fire. Her suffering and death is meant to spur them into stupidity and carelessness. Frankie’s sharp eyes see the thoughts warring in his mind, and she shakes her head dismissively.

“We won’t be going alone,” she tells him. “Muster your Coursers. Ask any who are willing to accompany us to prepare. If shit goes south, Maxson will get the war he wants. In earnest, this time.”

“What do you plan to do?” He asks, surprised his vocal chords still work for the tightness in them.

“I’m going to kill that piece of shit,” she answers, her voice still flat and cold as a marble floor. She shifts Astrid’s head to the vinyl floor beneath them and rises to her feet. The knees of her jeans are dark with Astrid’s blood, her hands smeared with it from attempting to staunch the flow from too many injuries. “And I’m going to enjoy every second of it.”

-

When Frankie enters SRB, it is through a crowded doorway. The assembled Coursers move to either side, allowing her to pass. Even standing where he is, he can hear the courteous greetings of  _ ma’am  _ or  _ Director  _ uttered from dozens of lips. Frankie wends her way through the crowd towards him, occasionally nodding or returning greetings, though her expression is grim and her dark eyes are fixed on him and him alone. When she finally reaches his side, she leans close. Her lips brush the shell of his ear, sending a tingle down his spine.

“How many will fight?” She asks in a low voice.

He regards her somberly. “All of them.”

“All…” She trails off, surveying the pensive faces watching them. She clears her throat, trying again. “All of them? There’s got to be at least fifty of them crammed into this department right now.”

“Fifty-five,” he corrects her. “Every Courser we have.”

“Well, shit,” she breathes.

He delves into memory for his next words. Words someone once spoke to him, and have stayed with him all these past months. 

“You see what happens when free will is given to those who have served in chains all their lives?”

She looks at him sharply, registering his words, and then a low chuckle rumbles up from somewhere no amount of grief or anger might touch.

“I suppose I should be wary of who listens to my words, huh, X?”

“We are ready when you are,” is his only reply. “Fully geared out. We have obtained blueprints of the Mass Pike subway system, if you would care to view them.”

“Yes, of course.” Her gaze cools, features settling into an expression of quiet determination. Frankie the soldier, the Director, returned. She follows him to the desk, where the blueprints have been laid out. He watches as she flips through them, obsidian eyes scanning methodically.

“There’s a lot of choke points,” she says at last. “And a lot of blind corners. If they are burrowed in, eradicating them will be problematic. We would be facing heavy casualties, army of Coursers or not. I suggest focusing on points they won’t expect, or won’t guard as vigilantly as doors. We have stealth on our side, not to mention a rather deadly force of pissed off Coursers. Look here, and… here,” she points, illustrating. “That’s a maintenance entrance. Little more than a ladder leading down from a manhole cover. And that’s a sewer grate. Should be easy enough to cut through and climb through. It wouldn’t be a pleasant task for the assigned team, but it would allow us to flank them.”

“How do you wish to play this?” He asks. “Full-on assault? Eradication?”

She chews on her lip. “No. Not as an immediate response. I’ve got a hunch Maxy-boy wants to ride out his grudge towards me. You think he hated me before? You should have heard what he called me after he realized you and I were involved. I haven’t seen disgust like that since I tried to roast a Thanksgiving turkey. He hates me. The kind of hate that consumes a man. This isn’t about the Institute, or what we do here. Not anymore.” She smiles, a mirthless smile meant only for herself. “This is about me, and what I stand for. What I symbolize.”

“What do you symbolize?” He asks, not sure he understands.

“His own weakness. His near-failure as a Brotherhood poster boy. I made him question himself. I talked him into compromising his ironclad values, and allowing a synth to walk. He’s never forgiven me for that, I expect. Stealing his chance at destroying the Institute and sinking his beloved airship are only fuel added to an already-burning pyre. He wants me dead more than he wants anything else. Being that angry… Hating oneself that much… It weakens you. It makes you stupid. Stupidity is something we can use.”

“We draw him out in the open, then,” X6 decides. “And we kill him.”

“Not we,” she says softly. “Me. I kill him.”

“Frankie…” he begins in a warning tone, but she silences him with a shake of her head.

“This isn’t about vengeance, X. Am I angry? Yes. Hell yes, I am. I’d like to see that fucker burn like a dry brushfire. But you’re missing the point of a symbolic death. Maxson is the driving force behind the Brotherhood. He is their leader, their god, their false idol. They believe he cannot be bested, cannot be killed. Look at how they moon over the fact he killed a deathclaw, as though it was proof of his deity. They ceased worshipping their god above long ago, trading his memory for a more tangible version. And if you make a god bleed…” She raises her eyes to meet his once more. “Then he is no longer a god, but a man. A man who dies, afraid and alone, just as all other men do. I want them to watch him die, X. I want their hope and their faith to die with him. It is how we find peace with minimal casualties.”

There is truth in her words. He knows this. He has experienced as much in his time both watching her and fighting at her side. She was a dragon; invulnerable, indomitable, until the day Brotherhood bullets nearly killed her. In that moment, as he held her bleeding in his arms… she ceased to be a dragon, and became human in his eyes. Something he dared touch. A sun he might pluck from the sky without being scorched.

“And if he kills you?” As great as his own faith in her is, her words fill him with dread.

“Then you have my full support to wage war  _ your _ way,” she answers grimly. “And if I am wrong about him, then we will give them everything we’ve got. Either way, this ends now. I won’t let them get the drop on us again.”

They spend the next hour planning for every contingency, and when it is done they brief the waiting Coursers. As Frankie explains the plan, X6 allows his eyes to roam over his people. In this moment, standing beside his dragon and joined by his brothers and sisters, he feels pride. A pride so immense it swells within his chest and he feels as though he might burst from it. Of all the Coursers in the Institute, only a handful have chosen to live out their lives on the surface. A few out of disagreement with the new way of things. Still others to pursue relationships with each other or other synths, away from the prying eyes of others. Those who remain, these fifty-five standing proudly wall-to-wall, are here of their own volition. They have chosen freedom within the walls that were once their prison. They have chosen to defend life rather than take it. To make amends for the past, rather than live in it.

"I know what I’m asking of you,” Frankie tells the sea of faces carved from stone. “If it comes to a conflict, many of you may die. Our enemy is dug-in, ready to fight to the last man in the name of their cause. They have power armor, advanced weaponry, and discipline on their side. These aren’t clumsy raiders or half-witted super mutants. These are soldiers, and if they fight us… we will have our hands full.”

She clasps her hands before her, her stance relaxed but forthright. Her eyes roam, meeting the gazes that would seek hers.

“None of you are under any obligation to go. You owe me nothing. You are free men and women, answering to no one. If you would rather remain here, I will accept your decision. Your lives are your own to risk or protect, and there is no shame in being unwilling to fight a war you did not start.”

“With all due respect, ma’am,” one of the Coursers steps forward. “We will fight until our last breath to defend you and what you stand for. That is our prerogative, and we will seize it if need be.”

Echoes of agreement fill the room, and Frankie lifts her chin in answer to them. She nods, a fierce and jerky movement of her head. When she turns back to X6, he does not miss the glitter of tears at the corners of her eyes.

-

Four teams teleport in. One at the main entrance to Mass Pike, close enough that any scouts watching might see them. One team by the sewer grate, to stand at the ready should infiltration become necessary. Another by the maintenance entrance. The final team positions itself near the partially-blocked exit. If things go badly, the Brotherhood will attempt to escape through the limited doorways there. All Coursers are under stealth, instructed to move with extreme caution.  _ Do not so much as twitch unless I tell you,  _ Frankie instructs.  _ I don’t want them to know how many of you are here with us.  _ Only she and X6 are visible. They walk twenty paces ahead of their stealth team, faces blank and weapons at the ready. They stop at the top of the crumbling concrete slope leading to the entrance and halt.

“What now?” he asks, frowning. It is utterly silent. He does not like the silence. He imagines a hundred eyes boring into them, watching from the shadows, and unease stirs in his gut.

“They’ve seen us,” she answers confidently. “They know we’re here. Now we wait. If they open fire or try anything, you give the other teams the signal. We’ll go in messy.”

He nods. As though on cue, the earpiece he is wearing crackles. A reminder of its presence. Five minutes pass, in which neither he nor Frankie move a muscle. The only movement is Frankie’s hair, tendrils of it lifted by the blustering wind and made to dance. A storm is rolling in. He can see it from his peripherals, feel the heavy ozone crawling over his skin. The fine hairs on the back of his neck rise in answer to it. Heavy, green-hued clouds hanging low over the fractured buildings. A rad storm, if he had to guess. This late in fall, it will be a cold one.

Ahead, a door opens. He tenses, watching warily as a figure appears. The soldier is clad in power armor, and with the helmet in place there is no telling if it is Maxson himself or one of his lackeys. He can feel tremors through the fractured concrete beneath his feet as the heavy suit stomps closer. He waits for Frankie’s signal, tensed and ready to fight.

“That’s far enough,” Frankie calls, raising her rifle and holding it level. “That you, Artie? Hiding in your armor?”

The soldier does not answer, but raises their hands to remove the suit’s helmet. There is a hiss of released pressure, before the helmet comes free. A man with hard eyes and a face far too lined for his age emerges. They are the ugly lines of a man with an ill temper. His eyes flare with hatred and his lip curls with disgust upon seeing Frankie and her companion.

_ “Director,” _ he snarls.

“Rhys,” Frankie answers easily. “What an absolute pleasure to see you.” In the typical confusing duality of human speech, her words belie anything but enjoyment at seeing the young soldier. “Where’s Haylen?”

“The traitor is inside. She is insurance, in case you and your new buddies decide to get froggy on us.”

Frankie smiles, and it is toothy. A shark’s smile. “You expect me to take your word for it? I want proof of life.”

“Tune into frequency AF95,” Rhys answers, no less venomously. “I’m sure you remember it well... From when you were one of us.”

“Watch him, X,” she says. He keeps his eyes locked on Rhys as she lowers her rifle and fiddles with the knob on her Pip-Boy. There is only static at first, but as the signal clears a new sound emits from the device. The sound of someone crying softly. A woman’s sobs. Pleading, begging her captors not to strike her again. He can tell by the way Frankie’s mouth curves into a frown that she recognizes the woman’s voice. She is still listening, head cocked, when a deep male voice comes on.

_ “Frankie. You must think me stupid. How many abominations lurk in the shadows about you?” _

“Enough to make short work of you and your merry band of bigots if need be,” she replies casually, holding a button down. “Why don’t you and I chat? It’s been a while since we caught up on all the local gossip.”

_ “I have nothing to say to a synth lover like you.” _

“Artie,” and her voice shifts, changes. It’s almost a falsetto, and he has never heard her use it before. It is unpleasantly cloying. Deliberately so. “Come, now. There is no need to be coy. I believe you called me a synth  _ fucker,  _ before. An  _ abomination-loving whore. _ You were so brave with your words after you had your men beat me half to death and hold my arm for you to break. So courageous and noble. A true leader. Why don’t you come out here and we can discuss your feelings in earnest.”

_ “All it would take is one order, and you’d be a smear on the surface of the Commonwealth.” _

The radio frequency does nothing to filter out the anger in Maxson’s voice. Her taunting and the tone she is using are eating away at him.  _ She’s right,  _ X6 thinks.  _ He wants her dead, but he wants it to be by his own hands.  _

“Chicken-shit little boy,” Frankie laughs openly. It’s a high, cold, and haughty laugh. “Sending your tin soldiers to do the work of a man. This is the greatest leader the Brotherhood has ever seen? You hide underground like a rat, wallowing behind those thick stone walls, because you’re  _ afraid _ of me. Because you don’t have the nuggets to come out here and finish this properly. You know in a fair fight against me you’d be less than nothing. ”

Silence answers her, and he flicks a worried look to Frankie. She only waits patiently, mouth set in a mocking half-smile. It is an empty and twisted version of the crooked grin he has grown so fond of. He hates it. Hates seeing this.

_ “You want to settle this?” _ Maxson snarls at long last.  _ “Set your terms.” _

“You and me. No guns, power armor, or body armor. Good old fashioned fists and knives. If you kill me, my people retreat and yours are allowed to live to fight another day. If I kill you, your people release Haylen into our care. Your boys in steel fuck off back to the capital, leaving the Commonwealth in peace, and never return.”

_ “When I kill you, you won’t be around to ensure any of these posthumous terms.”  _ He sounds confident. Sure of himself. He is a man who leads an army. A man who has been afforded far too much respect from a young age, his head swollen from the praise. A man who bears the scar from his tangle with a deathclaw. He is a man who does not believe he can be defeated.

“I’m willing to bet my life your men have more honor than you,” she replies. 

_ “There needs to be a combat circle, ringed by my men. I don’t trust your abominations at my back while I’m busy dealing with you.” _

“A ring comprised half of your men and half of mine,” she agrees. “You’re not the only one with trust issues. It was your people who broke the peace agreement last time.”

_ “On my orders.” _

“Exactly, Artie. Trust has to be earned. You have one hour to get your shit together and prepare your last will and testament. Fire a flare over the chosen battleground when you’re ready. We’ll be along shortly after.”

They withdraw some distance, choosing to regroup in the alleyways of destroyed buildings. X6 steps aside to touch base with each team. One by one, his people report in. So far, things have gone well. He and Frankie’s presence at the entrance pulled attention away from the others being spotted. With all teams safely in position, they have a secure foothold should it come to an all-out fight. He returns to Frankie’s side, where she is methodically removing her body armor. He watches, brows drawn, as she unbuckles her thigh rig and hands it to another Courser. 

“Are you capable with a knife?” He asks, though he knows better. Frankie raises an eyebrow at him, but not does not cease her disrobing.

“What do you think, X?” 

When she is stripped down to a tee shirt, fatigues, boots, and her combat knife he approaches her. She allows him to pull her into his arms, the shadow of an old Mona Lisa smile on her lips at the gesture.

“Don’t even think about kissing me goodbye,” Frankie says, hands pressed flat to his chest.

“You cannot expect me to feel secure in this decision,” he protests. His arms tighten about her unconsciously, as though they wish to memorize the shape of her body within them. “I have watched you toe the threshold of death more than once. I have been drenched in your blood, been made to place pressure on your injuries lest you bleed out. You are as susceptible to injury as any of us. You can be broken just as easily as I can. I do not share your confidence.”

“When this is done,” she says gently, tipping her face to look up at him, “You and I are ditching all responsibility for a full week. We’ll stay in bed for days, wallowing in blankets and each other. We’ll eat nothing but Fancy Lad snack cakes and beer., until we’re sick from them. We’ll walk the halls of our big house, entirely naked, uncaring about the sea birds who might see us through the windows. But right now… we’ve got to finish this. One more thing to do, before we can rest and continue to build a better future. We owe it to ourselves as much as we do to our people. Okay?”

He lets out a long breath in defeat. “Okay,” he concedes, “But I am going to kiss you anyway.”

“I like how bold you’ve gotten,” she says with a crooked grin. Whatever other words she might say are muffled by his lips pressing to hers.

She stops him with a hand on his arm as they approach the ring of men waiting beneath the flare still burning in the sky.

“I love you, you know.” The timbre of her voice, husky and reluctant, gives him pause. He looks down at the strong, capable fingers overlapping his forearm before meeting the pools of stolen midnight that gaze at him. He expected her to be calm in this moment. Confident, collected, and sure of herself. He does not like what he sees behind those eyes, now. Does not like the newfound edge to her voice.  _ Humans, _ forever saying what they truly wish to with body language rather than plain words. He would find it maddening, if it were not so endearing of them.

“You do not have to do this,” he tells her, concern riding the current of his own words. “We can still go in, take them all down.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “This way, we have a chance of ending it without more fallout. Look around you, X. Aren’t you tired of fallout? More than two hundred years later and we are all still paying for our forefathers’ brutality and lack of foresight. Look up. The very sky punishes us for their sins. No, this is… My last chance to set something right. Something that has been wrong for far too long.”

“The way you are speaking now… It worries me.” He can feel the tightness between his eyebrows, the tension building between his shoulder blades. Seeing her shaken thusly has in turn shaken him.

“I’m a grizzled old war dog, sweet thing,” she answers. Her fingers curl about his arm tighter, and with them comes warmth and reassurance, pressed into his flesh. “I can take anything they throw at me. I guess I’m just… lost in memories of the past, today. Hindsight is a cruel mistress sometimes.”

“Do not think of the past,” he says firmly. “But of the future, and what we have yet to build.”

“Careful,” she teases. “You’re beginning to sound smart. Someone might mistake you for a leader.”


	24. Obsession

[Mood Music ](https://youtu.be/6nE0S_Dq4tE)

Maxson stands facing them, his half-circle of twelve armored knights flanking him. He is wearing camouflage fatigues, black boots, and a gray undershirt. Beneath his layers of clothing, heavy muscle ripples and flexes with every movement. Beneath that leather coat lies a body the Institute itself could not have made more solid. Holotags rest on his broad chest, and his hands are curled into fists as he watches their approach. Maxson is a man who looks for all the world like the living embodiment of a storm. A storm equal to the one fomenting overhead. The first few raindrops begin to patter against the parched earth, and X6 can see dust rise, curling upward, from the impact of each heavy droplet. He looks to Frankie, and sees her eyes returning from studying the churning sky. The Mona Lisa smile is in place, her eyes as flat and unreadable as they were before she met him. Behind her, six Coursers materialize as they switch off their stealth. He finds satisfaction in the startled gasps from the Brotherhood soldiers at the suddenness of their appearance.  _ Good. Let them piss themselves with fear.  _

“Artie,” Frankie nods mock-solemnly. 

“I would kill you for the nickname, if nothing else,” Maxson growls. “There was a time you referred to me as Elder Maxson, and afforded me the proper respect for my title.”

“That was before you ordered me to kill my friend,” she answers without any inflection. “I guess I hold grudges. I’m old fashioned like that.”

“Did you fuck him, too?” Maxson parries. “Like you do this one? Is that why you were so eager to throw everything aside for him?”

X6 shifts his gaze from Maxson to Frankie, and then back. The Elder’s body is coiled with anger, and hurt clings to his words despite the bravado in them. Words, without speaking them. Maxson is…  _ jealous. _ There is more to his fury than the simple origin of the synth who fooled him, and of Frankie’s betrayal. The Elder of the Brotherhood  _ envies  _ his closeness to Frankie. Envies Danse’s bond with her. It explains why Maxson did not have the courage to kill Frankie himself, but planned to hurt her as deeply as possible by making X6 do it. He wanted her to feel the ache of betrayal, for he himself feels betrayed by her. Betrayed in a way far more personal than the events at Mass Fusion would explain. The realization stuns him, and then he finds himself hiding a sudden and irrationally smug smile. He is not the only man who has gazed upon a dragon with longing. 

“Of course I did,” Frankie answers easily. “Couldn’t get enough of him. Along with all the other synths in your ranks. It’s hard to keep count. Math was never my strong suit.”

_ “Liar!” _ Maxson roars. “We have cross-checked all our records, screened all recruits, you and your--”

_ “Enough,” _ Frankie interrupts, her voice cracking over the distance between them like rock parting beneath an earthquake’s embrace. “We aren’t here to discuss my love life, or your lack thereof. Save it for your knitting circle of like-minded shitheads.”

“Ready when you are,” Maxson snarls, face flushed with anger and humiliation.

Frankie turns to X6, and allows the corners of her mouth to lift in a smile.  _ His _ smile. 

“Join the others. I’ll be done here in a minute. Maybe two.”

Warily, his eyes never leaving Maxson, he steps back and joins the rest of her escort. He and the other Coursers stand shoulder-to-shoulder, facing Maxson’s men. He tells himself if any of these soldiers try to cheat, or aid their Elder in any way, the rain will not be the only thing watering the dry earth. He will make sure of it. Frankie draws her combat knife, and as she and Maxson begin to circle each other, she tosses it in the air and catches it, over and over in smooth repetition. Maxson scowls, brows drawing together in anger at her arrogant display. He take a swipe at her, and the fight begins. The clouds choose this juncture to open, and the few raindrops that were little more than a promise moments ago become a deluge. Within minutes, it becomes hard to see for the curtain of glimmering precipitation, but there is enough light to catch each knife slash and twist of bodies. Frankie’s golden skin shines, muscles slick with rain as she meets Maxson’s attacks.

Maxson is fast. Incredibly fast, given his size. He presses towards Frankie, and she gives ground - backing away or dodging, twisting or dancing out of the way. She is toying with him, forcing him to expend his energy quicker than she. Maxson realizes this after a minute, and slows his efforts. 

“I thought you’d be braver,” Maxson taunts over the torrential downpour. “But you run from your death, just as that coward Danse did.”

Frankie doesn’t answer. The loose strands of her flaxen hair are now plastered to her skin, and she moves out of the way of Maxson’s next slash with an effortlessness that brings pride swelling forth in X6’s chest. Indomitable Frankie. She follows up with a slash of her own, and Maxson grunts as first blood joins the rain to mingle into mud at their feet. Frankie seems unaffected by his words, shrugging one shoulder as if to say,  _ bleat like a frightened animal all you like. _

Maxson swings and Frankie ducks, slamming a fist into his gut. He uses his momentum to drive an elbow down into her shoulder, and she stumbles and dives into a roll, springing back to her feet just in time to escape the heel of a boot. She is covered in mud and soaked through to the bone. Her hair has come loose in the fight, hanging about her face like stray vines from a tree. She is grinning, and it is a determined and feral sort of grin. Her teeth gleam in the low light of the storm, and Maxson’s lip curls back in an answering grin. Now it is Frankie who presses close, and she blocks Maxson’s descending hand with her forearm, twisting into a grapple and throwing him to the ground. X6 catches a glint of something. Maxson’s knife, flipping through the air to land several feet away in the muck.

Maxson swings one leg out as he falls, hooking it around Frankie’s ankles and pulling her down with him. They tumble through the mud together, twined like lovers - but the sort of lovers who mean to kill each other, not embrace. They roll to a halt with Frankie astride him. She slams her fist into Maxson’s face once, twice, the dull and meaty thuds carrying over the din of the storm. When the Elder catapults her off of him once more, X6 can see blood staining his teeth and streaming down his chin. Maxson’s nose is broken, his lip split. Frankie’s fists hit like a freight train might hit a traffic cone barricade at full speed. Maxson rolls, a groan escaping him, and lurches to his feet. He is holding his knife once more, having fished it from the mud as he rolled clear. He shakes his head, and droplets scatter from his disarrayed hair. There is a ticking, a crackling sound, carried over the heavy breathing of the two opponents and the crash of thunder. Frankie’s geiger counter, sounding its alarm at the radiation carried in every raindrop.

“You could have been part of something greater than yourself,” Maxson roars, water dripping from his earlobes. “You could have changed the world.”

“And what a world you would have it be,” Frankie shouts back. She squares herself, feet shoulder-width apart and hands raised. Her knife gleams in the low light. “Everyone fitting neatly into a teeny-tiny little box. I think I like mine better.”

“After I kill you,” Maxson tells her, brandishing his retrieved knife, “I’ll have my men finish off your friends, too. We’ll leave the lot of you to rot in the sun… Assuming synthetic flesh  _ can _ rot.”

“Willing to break our agreement so easily,” Frankie says, loud enough that Maxson’s men might hear. “Incredible, that any of them would follow you. You aren’t fit to lead a kingdom of horseshit and flies.”

She cannot see it, for her attention is on Maxson. The Brotherhood soldiers look to one another. A few shake their heads, displeased by their leader’s display of dishonorable intent. He has often wondered if the members of the Brotherhood are more like Danse or Maxson. By all accounts, his former beliefs aside, Danse is an intelligent, kind, and brave man. A man who inspired similar goodness in those he led. A man who is nothing like the sneering Elder he so willingly served and nearly died for. X6 supposes he can understand such blind devotion. Was he not similar, in his almost worshipful reverence for Father? Has he not changed despite it, become more, just as Danse has?

Driven by his anger, Maxson lunges at Frankie. His knife makes one brutal sweep after another through the driving wind and rain. X6 can hear the swish of the blade through the air. Rain sloughs off Maxson’s sweeping arm. It is cold, now. Cold enough that Frankie’s breath fogs out white with her efforts as she parries and twists out of reach. They lock, matching strength for strength as Maxson attempts to force his blade down. The tip of his knife is inches from Frankie’s right eye, and her muscles coil and bunch as she fights against his greater stature and weight. Bile rises in X6’s throat as Maxson’s knife gains ground, moving closer one centimeter at a time. Frankie’s crossed arms, shaking from effort, are all that keep it from embedding in her socket. Her weight shifts, and Maxson is too late to gauge her next move. She drives a knee into his side, a hard and vicious strike against his vulnerable ribs. Air gusts from the Elder’s lungs along with a bellow of pain, and X6 is sure as he watches the other man stagger that something else has broken. 

Frankie presses her advantage. Again, one of her long legs flashes out - a boot to Maxson’s gut. He falls back in the mud, gasping for air. Frankie is on top of him in a second, hands wrapping around his neck. The tendons in her hands and the veins in her forearms stand out with the effort as she squeezes tighter and tighter. X6 knows if suffocation does not kill Maxson, the crushing of his windpipe might. She screams, then, and X6 is not sure if it is madness in the moment or from the effort of the fight. She throws her head back, spine arching, the elegant line of her long neck illuminated briefly by the next flash of lightning, and _howls._ Maxson’s boots scrabble and slide against the slick mud beneath them, seeking purchase. His legs kick and thrash as he attempts to buck Frankie off of him. Though she is smaller than he, she is no delicate creature. She tightens her thighs about the trunk of his body, refusing to be dislodged no matter how he might twist beneath her. A cruel and twisted version of the embrace he must have burned for.

Maxson claws at her arms with desperate fingers, drawing great bloody tracks through her flesh with his nails when he fails to break her grip. He grasps at her face, and Frankie jerks her head away as his fingers dig into her cheek. His eyes bulge as he strains for oxygen and Frankie’s grip closes off his blood supply. Rainwater pools in the hollows of his sockets. His mouth gasps and yaws, a fish gulping for air as it flounders upon a dock. 

X6 can no longer see Frankie’s face. It is obscured by swinging ropes of wet hair and the shadows cast by the churning, sickly clouds overhead. All he can see is flashes of gleaming white teeth contrasted against deep gold skin, her terrible grin still fixed to her face as she watches the light drain from the Elder’s eyes. A dragon, teeth bared in a snarl, wresting life from the lesser creature beneath her.

He is uncertain of the time that passes. Is it seconds or minutes before Maxson’s legs cease to kick? Minutes or hours before the last twitches leave his limbs, and Frankie releases her grip on his throat? She flexes her fingers, as though urging sensation to return to them after her terrible grip. Her thumbs are bloodied to the first knuckle, and he realizes with some mild surprise that they were _embedded_ in the late Elder’s throat. She looks up, then, her eyes searching the silent soldiers gathered around her. They loom over her, steel armor and kevlar shining wetly in the toxic light, like great tombstones in a cemetery. She finds him, her dark eyes unreadable to him in their shadows. Two long gashes run the length of her face, from her forehead to the right corner of her mouth. Marks left by a desperate man in his final struggle. She remains crouched over the late Elder, unmoving, as though waiting to see what his soldiers will do in the wake of his death.

“You  _ bitch,” _ one of the soldiers roars. He wears a helmet, but X6 knows the voice, now. Rhys. The man who met them outside of Mass Pike tunnel. “You killed him, you fucking bitch, you fucking synth lover!”

He begins to raise the rifle at his side, and X6 lifts his own in response.

“No!” Another voice roars, and before X6 can take action one of the other Brotherhood soldiers raises his own weapon and fires a burst of laser fire at Rhys. It does not kill him, not clad in power armor as he is. It is a warning, meant to remind him of the situation as well as disarm him. Rhys’ laser rifle spins away from him, a smoking hole burned through the polymer receiver. The unnamed man speaks again, his voice commanding and authoritative. “Knight Rhys, as your commanding officer, I order you to stand down!”

“Captain Brandis, sir, she killed him! She killed Elder Maxson!” Rhys protests, the audio distortion of the helmet and the insistent storm doing nothing to conceal his fury. “Now is our chance. If we kill her, the Institute has no one to lead them! An eye for an eye!”

“You will honor Elder Maxson’s final oath, or I will execute you myself,” Brandis bellows. “There will be no more blood spilled here,  _ Knight.  _ Fall in line. _ ” _

Despite his anger, the reminder of rank snaps Rhys back into himself. He salutes, fist clanking against his chest plate, and steps back. A slave to his conditioning, regaining his obedience. X6 does not lower his weapon again until both Rhys and Captain Brandis are standing at ease once more. Behind him, his Coursers lower their weapons as well. An uneasy silence stretches out over the circle, as Coursers face Brotherhood soldiers around a bleeding and rain-drenched Frankie.

“Captain, huh,” Frankie says at last, rising slowly to her feet. Despite the pounding rain and the rumbling sky, her voice rings out clear and concise. “Congratulations on the promotion, Brandis.”

“A sympathy promotion, I think,” Brandis shrugs, a surprisingly smooth gesture considering the bulk of his armor. “Guess they felt bad about abandoning me in the Commonwealth for three years. That or out of necessity, considering the dent you put in your numbers. Either way, I’m still not sure giving a crazy old man a position of high rank was a solid plan, but… You might have noticed the Brotherhood is given to errors in judgement lately. But enough about me. Are you well, Frankie? Can you walk?”

“I’m well enough,” she answers, shifting on her feet, shrugging her shoulders. She moves stiffly, pain written into every motion. “Tell me, Brandis… Do you truly intend to honor the terms Maxson and I set? Will you and the Brotherhood leave the Commonwealth?”

“We will,” Brandis agrees. “Though I cannot guarantee the council won’t bid us return when they hear of what has transpired here. Maxson was a bit of a darling to them.”

“If your people return, we will be ready for it. And we will kill them all,” Frankie states flatly. “Every single one of them. The people of the Commonwealth will never live under another faction’s shadow again. Every man, woman, and child - be they human, ghoul, or synth - deserve the chance to choose their own fate. To live free of any shackles or threat. Consider this a last chance… for both your people and mine. Peace, rather than more war and death.”

“I will share your words with them,” Brandis agrees. He surveys her, helmet cocked to the side, then shakes his head. “You’re a hell of a gal, Frankie. Damn shame you couldn’t stay the course with us.”

Frankie smiles, a cold and empty grimace. “You know how I feel about being someone’s puppet, old pal. If you ever decide to walk from this life, you’ll always have a place here. But the rest of your organization is about as welcome as a drunken mother in law.”

Brandis dips his head in understanding, before turning to the rest of the men. “Move out, soldiers! We’ve got some packing to do.”

“Brandis,” Frankie calls to his retreating back. “I’d like Haylen back, now.”

Brandis nods, lifts one hand to press a button at the side of his helmet. He murmurs something too low for X6 to hear, and after a moment, he switches his radio off again.

“Someone will escort her to the entrance. Your people may take her from there. Bad business, that. I always liked the kid.”

“Yeah,” Frankie replies. “We like her, too.”

“We’ll need time to pack and prepare. We’ve got a lot of people still recovering from injuries incurred at the airport. Give us 72 hours, and we will be gone.”

“Fair enough,” she agrees. “But if a single shot is fired at any of my people in the meantime, it will be taken out of your tough old hide in equal measure.”

“Fair enough,” Brandis echoes, chuckling.

X6 approaches her once the soldiers have gone, concern flooding him at the sight of her. She is swaying on her feet, blood seeping from a dozen slashes and wounds. She turns when she senses him at her shoulder, too tired to push the wet tendrils of hair from her eyes. He does it for her, smoothing them back to tuck behind her ears. Water drips from her nose, her chin. She blinks up at him through the deluge, flashing a half-hearted smile. There is blood at the corners of her mouth, smeared across her teeth.

“You killed him,” he states. The words feel stupid and hollow, but he does not know what else to say. He doubted her, and once again his underestimation of her was a mistake.

“Yeah, I guess I did.” She looks from him to the body lying at her feet, and then her legs give out beneath her.

He catches her as she falls, hands hooking beneath her arms as her face goes white beneath the mud and blood and rivulets of murky rainwater. She lets out a pained groan, long and agonized, and it is only then that he sees the knife protruding from her side. A knife he missed, drenched as she is and with the rain still pouring down on them.

_ The scream, _ he realizes.  _ The way she threw back her head and howled. That was when he stabbed her. X6, you fool. How could you miss that? _

“Frankie,” he cries, alarmed when he sees only the handle protruding from her side. The rest of the long and vicious knife is embedded between her ribs, puncturing something vital. He frantically searches his brain for what he remembers about anatomy. He can't remember anything. He forgets his own name in his sudden panic.

“I love you, you damn idiot.” They are her last words, spoken in a ragged voice before her eyes roll back in her head and he is left holding her limp form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue coming tomorrow <3


	25. Epilogue

**One Year Later**

X6-88 and Deacon walk the streets of Diamond City side by side. It has been some months since they had need to come here, and truly… bowls of noodles aren’t a necessity, Though Deacon swears they are as they approach Power Noodles. X6’s long and drawn out plan of subterfuge has been a success. The seeds distributed amongst the commonwealth have resulted in a boom of produce, as plants designed to weather the difficult conditions of the wasteland flourish and and grow, branches heavy with fruit and vines laden with all manner of vegetables. Diamond City market has been enjoying the surge of good fortune, and X6 smiles to himself as he strolls past the vendor stalls and eyes the plump fruits on display and smells the mouth-watering aroma of steamed dumplings and roasted meats. One man is deep in conversation with another vendor, describing in shocked detail what he has just seen with his own two eyes.

“Brahmin calves with only one head,” he says incredulously, shaking his head. “Several of them. Poor old Conway said he’d never seen the likes of it, in all his years of ranching. Says they even had hair on ‘em, like pre-war cattle. Imagine!”

The people of the wasteland are unaware of the mysterious benefactor pulling the strings, but the Commonwealth is safer and the food more bountiful for it. There is much work to be done still. X6 has been forced to split his focus amongst the most vital tasks. Foremost on his mind has been the eradication of the super mutant population, for it is one of the Institute’s greatest stains upon the world. Beings that were once humans, before the Institute’s experiments changed them, twisted them into what they are now. Mindless, hate-filled beasts who long for the death of all humans. He sends his Coursers on frequent patrols, tasking them with observing the people of the Commonwealth as well as eradicating all threats. Raiders, Gunners, super mutants, and feral ghouls are no longer safe. Not with Coursers roaming the streets either in stealth or disguised as Minutemen. Preston has been more than accommodating, supplying uniforms as well as sharing intel on possible threats. The two of them have grown close, solidifying the friendship that began all that time ago beneath the shadow of the Castle’s walls.

There are few Brotherhood soldiers left to hunt synths and sow terror. True to his word, Brandis took the remaining bulk of Brotherhood survivors and left the wasteland. According to X6’s informants, Captain Brandis was named the new Elder of the east coast chapter by unanimous vote. While still touting some flawed ideals, he is known for his even and fair hand among those who serve under him. Predictably, more than a few chose to remain, choosing desertion over surrender to the wishes of abominations. Men and women so driven by their creed they cannot acknowledge defeat at the hands of _synths._ With no support and no supply lines, they have been a small improvement over raiders. They press locals for aid, steal supplies, kidnap and interrogate suspicious persons in whatever filthy basements they have holed up in. Time and again the Minutemen and X6’s forces must clash with the remnants of such zealots. While the Institute is all but a forgotten memory in the minds of the Commonwealth, the Brotherhood has not forgotten. He suspects when they are done licking their wounds from the safety of the capital, they will return to finish what was started.

It is a slow start, only the edge of a much more expansive plan, but it is a good one. He intends to introduce the Institute and their work to the world slowly, but on his own terms. He has changed much, but there is no small amount of distrust remaining in him where humans are concerned. They are paranoid, terrified of the unknown, and it may be many years before a truly open relationship may be maintained between the Commonwealth and the Institute. He supposes there is no better way to grow accustomed to the role forced upon him than to get _both feet wet,_ as Preston often says.

_We must build a foundation of trust, first, X,_ Frankie once told him, as she ruffled through a mountain of paperwork. That was in the earliest days, when the future was yet uncertain. _Once the Commonwealth has tangible evidence of our good intentions, I will leave the rest to Piper._

He isn’t sure how he feels about the mouthy reporter spilling the Institute’s secrets to the world, but Frankie was correct in her assertion at the time. If there is anyone qualified to tell the story and tell it well, it is Piper. Piper, who now leans against the wall of her office across the market and visibly winks at him. He offers a small nod in return. The reporter was giddy upon receiving his invitation. When she finally saw the inside of the Institute, after years of speculation and churning rumors, she _twirled_ with joy. Actually physically _twirled,_ and hugged herself with obvious glee several times throughout the various departments, laughing at X6’s concerned stare.

He can only hope the plan does not backfire. If it does, the repercussions will ripple through the wasteland for decades to come. Places such as the recently quashed Covenant compound will spring up everywhere, as humans scramble to take up arms against their would-be benefactor. He wishes he had half the faith Frankie did. She always believed that people would do the right thing when given a choice, but he is not quite so human that he can feel the same optimism. Not yet. Perhaps in time.

X6 has learned much in his time assisting Deacon. His mannerisms are no longer stiff and formal. He supposes it comes with seeing himself as human, rather than a machine or a tool. Deacon insists a day will come when mastering a British accent will be a matter of life or death, but X6 refuses to use words like ‘crumpet’ or ‘rapscallion’ or ‘knackered.’ By now, he knows his friend well enough that he can tell when Deacon is simply messing with him for the fun of it. Today, Deacon is wearing a long blond wig - which he put on in front of X6, before popping his hip and beckoning X6 seductively with one finger - and an assortment of worn road leathers. X6 is wearing a ballcap, a ragged black sweater sporting the phrase CAT DAD, and torn jeans tucked into boots. They look like typical wastelanders, and as they slurp their noodles none in Diamond City so much as bat an eye. 

“How’s the kid?” He asks. He has not seen the child synth since handing him over to the Railroad’s more capable hands. Caring for a cat is one thing. Caring for a child… Especially a synth child… Is a task beyond his capability or willingness.

“Obsessed with Glory,” Deacon snorts. “But he’s been very helpful to Carrington. He’s brilliant. I’m pretty sure he could turn a fork into a vertibird if you gave him a wrench. I don’t know if that’s because he’s a copy of the real Shaun, or just Institute programming… but honestly, and don’t tell the doc I said this… I think he’s actually smarter than Carrington.”

“Shaun had an above average IQ,” he answers thoughtfully. “As did... the rest of his family. They were products of genetic engineering, remember?”

“Hopefully he didn’t inherit a god complex from Shaun,” Deacon mutters, sipping his soup.

Companionable silence falls over them, as both are suddenly lost in thought. Remembering how things were. Considering what is still to come. It is Deacon to breaks the reverie first, brows lifting as he spies something of interest.

“Jimmy,” Deacon says, using his favorite default name for X6, “Get a load of that guy.” He jabs his chopsticks in a direction across the market for emphasis.

X6 turns to see where Deacon is pointing, and goes as still as a statue. Dr Sun is arguing with a man on his doorstep, and from the looks of it, he is furious. The normally mellow man is red-faced, and his brows are drawn down. He is arguing with a wastelander standing in front of his clinic. A smaller man, with limbs so slender and a frame so slight he might be mistaken for a featherless bird. His thin fingers scramble to button his bloodstained shirt once more, for it is clear he was not given the time to do so inside. The wasteland has not been kind to him. He has the look of one who hasn’t eaten in days, and scabs from recent radiation poisoning riddle his skin. A tattered hat is jammed down about his ears, and his jacket is a threadbare and patched thing that has seen far better days. Even with the man’s back half-turned to X6, he would know him anywhere. Justin Ayo. He looks miserable, diminished. It is strange to see a man who once held the power to extinguish X6’s life now made to beg and wheedle for medical care. 

“You okay there, pal?” Deacon asks, and his voice comes from some faraway place, like the end of an empty subway tunnel.

He realizes his fingers have curled about the handle of the revolver at his hip, his noodles forgotten - and that he is staring, with an intensity that must surely reflect his days as a Courser. A remembrance of a time when his trade was only death. Slowly, he forces his fingers to relinquish their hold on his gun, picks up his noodle bowl once more, and takes a long sip of the salty and delicious broth. Words spoken to him long ago, by someone greatly loved, come to him like the whisper of waves upon a sandy shore.

_There is nothing so empty as vengeance._

“I’m fine,” he reassures Deacon. “For a moment there, I thought I saw a ghost.”

“Well if it’s a ghost you want to see, I can take you!” Deacon leans forward, taking on a conspiratorial tone. He doesn’t seem to notice the strands of his wig dragging through his own broth. “I know of an old wharf that is haunted by a one-legged fisherman who died in the great war. They say his missing leg is a harpoon, and if you call his name at midnight, you’ll hear the thumping of it on the old dock...”

“That sounds fun,” he offers, cutting the undoubtedly lengthy tale short. “But Deacon… Before we go, you’ve got to do something for me.”

“Anything, old pal.”

“Lose the blond wig. I’m developing some confusing feelings for you.”

Deacon cackles somewhat gleefully at that, waggling his ginger eyebrows behind his glasses. They finish their noodles, content in their meal and the buzz of unhurried people. When they are done eating and Takahashi has taken their bowls away, they leave the great green jewel behind them. They set out across the wasteland once more, resolute in their mission to reach the haunted wharf. The sky is clear, the day bright, and they have all the time in the world. He can almost forget the endless list of obligations waiting for him at home, at this moment. Deacon resumes his lengthy tale about the origins of the man with a harpoon leg, and X6 does his best to feign interest.

-

The Institute is full of memories. Each time he teleports back in, he is both haunted and warmed by them. He looks down, and realizes he is standing in the exact place he once stood while holding a bleeding Frankie in his arms. A time when he was not allowed to show fear, or mourn what he might be losing. A time when he was forced to live in the shadows and bite down on his grief like a leather strap, fearing the severing of a vital piece of himself.

He walks through the cafeteria, observing the handful of synths and humans who are still awake despite the late hour. Some have come to grab a late night snack, others to sit quietly with a book or talk to a friend. There are no curfews, no set cafeteria schedules. There is freedom in all things, however insignificant. Two synths face each other, laughing. Beneath the table, their feet touch - one woman’s toes overlapping the other’s as they share a treat. There is joy in their faces, and it causes a strange tightening in his chest. He remembers a time when he and Frankie sat at that table, she with her _cranberry crisp_ and he with eyes only for the dragon he wished to devour. For this, for the joy on his people’s faces, he would give everything. He would live through all the pain and wonder and chaos a hundred times over. To see such a thing is the true victory. 

So, too, does he remember the night everything changed. When the earth shifted on its axis beneath him, and he tumbled with it. Still afraid of what he was. Unsure of his own capability. Feeling ill-suited for the insurmountable task placed before him. And yet… somehow… Welcoming it. Feeling certain that this was the way things were meant to be.

_“I’m done, X. I’m fucking done.” Frankie’s eyes bore into him from where she perches atop the bathroom counter, winding a new dressing about her ribs. She refuses to let him help, with the startling revelation that she is quite ticklish. A dragon, subject to such a mortal failing. He couldn’t help but smile at it, which resulted in her gently punching him in the arm._

_“What are you done with?” He doesn’t understand where this sudden ire has come from, and stands uneasily in the doorway. Is she… done with him? Is she angry with him?_

_“Being shot, being stabbed, being ground into the mud. Fuck’s sake, enough is enough. I’m retiring.”_

_He laughs, but it is without joy. He is suddenly uncomfortable, concerned by the spark in her eyes. It is a spark he does not know, and he thought he knew everything about her._

_“You cannot retire. Humans only retire when they are old and worn. You have many years left to live.”_

_“Exactly.” She sets the roll of gauze she is holding down, then levels her eyes to meet his in the mirror. “And I’d like to enjoy them. It was never my intention to remain in place as Director, X. I accepted this position for you. For all the others like you. I did it because it needed to be done, not for any other reason. Now that Shaun is dead and Ayo is gone, and there is peace both within and without our walls - I’m done. It’s time for you to do what you were always meant to do.”_

_“What I…” He trails off, alarmed. “What do you mean?”_

_“I am naming you my successor, and stepping down.” Her flare of temper seems to break, then, her crooked smile returning. Her voice softens until it feels like a caress against his skin. “Who better to lead the Institute than their greatest creation?”_

_“You want me to be Director? To lead us?” He is incredulous, horrified, his gut twisting at the very thought of it. A familiar voice, long silent, crawls beneath his skin like a sharp-limbed spider._

**_Obey._** You were made to obey. You were never made to lead. You are a tool, to be wielded by your creator’s hands. Nothing more.

_“It was your right all along.” She turns in place, allowing her feet to dangle off the counter for a moment before sliding off its edge and standing before him. The wound in her side pains her greatly, the area surrounding it mottled purple and yellow. Heavy black stitches hold it closed, ugly against the bruised golden skin. Another wound that nearly killed her, its threat of mortality folding in the face of her stubbornness. She winces at the movement, pain blooming in her eyes like winking stars - but shakes it off and squares her shoulders._

_“I never wanted this,” she says again. “And it should never have been given to me. It was handed to me because I happened to be related to the asshole who started all this. I never suffered at their hands, never had to go through all the terrible things you did. I never had to make the choices you did. You were forged in fire, and I walked through it with a flame-retardant suit on.”_

_“Frankie, I can’t,” he protests. “It’s not right.”_

_“Why not?” She asks, pressing her hands flat to his chest. Her palms are rough and warm against his bare chest. Comforting. Centering. “Name one legitimate reason why you are ill-suited to the task. I can name a hundred for myself.”_

_“I am a synth,” he stumbles, and even as the words leave his lips he resents them. Stupidity from his life before. Programming, spilling from his tongue like carefully rehearsed brainwashing. He considers biting off his traitorous tongue and swallowing it, but instead he only bows his head in surrender. She is right. He would be a capable leader, and she saw it in him long before he could so much as whisper it._

_Frankie cocks her head and smiles. It is a soft and genuine and tender thing, warming him to the center of his very being. Her basalt eyes capture the light, shining as she cups his face in her hands._

_“Uh huh,” she says softly. “That’s what I thought.”_

_She kisses him, soundly and deeply, until the rigidity and trepidation leave his muscles and his arms encircle her in an automatic and entirely human gesture. He is careful, tender, mindful of the still-knitting flesh where Maxson’s knife tore at delicate tissues. He will always be so, with her. With him, she is no dragon. Only someone who loves him as completely as he loves her._

-

Frankie is asleep when he returns to the Institute once more. He stands in the doorway of their room and watches the rise and fall of her chest. She snores softly - a side effect of her crooked nose, never fixed - and he thinks it is perhaps the sweetest thing he has ever heard. He approaches her at long last, smiling at the way her long arms and legs are splayed in all directions, and sits on the edge of the bed as gently as he can. There was a time she was ethereal to him. A dream, shimmering like waves of heat on sun-baked hills. She is still a dream, but one he can reach out and touch. Perfect in her imperfections. Human, and flawed, and more beautiful for them. Emmett is curled up against her, and his eyes immediately open upon feeling X6’s weight against the mattress. He greets X6 with a soft little _mrrow?,_ before rising and stretching in a luxurious fashion, padding softly across the tousled sheets to him. 

“Hi,” he whispers, running his hand from the neatly pointed ears to the tip of a striped tail in smoothing strokes. Emmett arches and purrs, and then his greeting is joined by another - the _thump thump thump_ of Dogmeat’s tail from under the bed. A cold black nose emerges from the gloom to sniff at his ankles, and the thumping increases tenfold.

He pulls off his boots one by one, then removes his black sweater and throws it on the floor. There was a time when he’d never have dreamed of doing something so audacious. He would have placed the item of clothing neatly in a bin, to be laundered by a team of subservient synths. Now, there is freedom in every small thing he does. He goes where he wants when he chooses. He wears what he likes, and eats whatever sounds good to him at the time. Above all - and this is the _root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life_ \- he has the freedom to love, and be loved. There is no greater gift than that, and as he looks at the room around him and the dog at his feet and the cat in his lap and the golden dragon snoring in his bed, he finds he cannot stop smiling. There is nothing so empty as vengeance, and nothing so full as his heart.

Frankie murmurs something nonsensical as he crawls under the covers, and her arm automatically lifts to wrap around him, pulling him close to her.

“Mmmff,” she mumbles into the back of his neck. “You’re warm, Mr. Director.”

“Don’t let me wake you, Mrs. X,” he answers, turning his face to press a kiss to her forehead.

“Did you and dumbass have a good time?” She asks sleepily, yawning and burrowing still closer. One of her legs overlaps him, and he makes no protest. He enjoys the weight of it. Grounding him, just as she does.

“Deacon said you’d call him that,” he murmurs. “He also said to tell you hi. I won’t repeat what else he wanted me to say.”

“I’ll kick his teeth in,” she mumbles threateningly, already slipping back into dreams.

There is much work to be done, still. In time, he hopes the Commonwealth will be ready for what the Institute was, and is, and has yet to be. But for now, they operate in the shadows. No more are they a blade waiting to fall, held suspended over unsuspecting men and women and children. They are shepherds and guides, keeping a watchful and protective eye over what remains of humanity. There is hope, true hope, for the first time in many years. And he will be there for it, guiding his people every step of the way. He joins her in sleep, and his dreams are of a night long ago. A night when a dragon rose from ashes, with embers for eyes, and stole his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, here we are. The end of my little... reimagining of X6's story. Thank you for sticking with me through it, and for the love and sweet comments. <3


End file.
